


How Lucky We Are

by bluecarrot



Series: To Be Alive [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Character Development, Dead People, For The Revolution, Gen, Hamburr, Historical Inaccuracy, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, M/M, Multi, Office Sex, Other, Sad, Slow Build, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Wakes & Funerals, comparing sex to war, or is that comparing war to sex, piano playing sometimes, tagsmakemenervous, why does everyone have the same name, widower Aaron Burr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7272673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>modern AU wherein everyone is a lawyer:<br/>Did Hamilton always get what he wanted? Shouldn't someone stop that?</p><p>Sad slow burn with a dribble of hotsauce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Nice Cuppa

**Author's Note:**

> (sort-of-sequel forthcoming.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Burr is drunk and Hamilton is intrusive (ie, situation normal.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herbal tea is delicious, and Burr is a madman. (Or maybe he's being deliberately ornery? SURELY NOT.)

Theodosia Prevost Burr was buried on an October afternoon.  
Aaron Burr went to an out-of-the-way bar immediately after the funeral, seeking to avoid all faces he knew even slightly, and then went further afield, weaving a pattern down the street, narrowly avoiding fences and lampposts. He counted houses, counted doors, running his hand along the fence posts. One more house -- no, three -- and there was the familiar door with its grade-school wreath, his daughter Theo made one too, all papier-mâché and colored tissue paper, it looked terrible and he had kissed her and thanked her and told her it was marvelous.  
God. He would never kiss his wife again.  
He couldn't go home like this. He couldn't go home, not to that empty house. It was sure to be filled just now with people he had never liked -- mutual friends and neighbors, everyone grieving when they had no right to grieve, they hadn't known her, they hadn't loved her, they didn't feel this -- this way --  
He thought dimly of his daughter. She was at home. But she would understand why he wasn't. Someone would take care of her. He had to --  
He tried to knock on the door, whoever's door it was that he was in front of, that door with the wreath so like his own door, his own daughter's work.   
Instead he tripped and fell against the wooden porch railing.  
He tried to get up. Shouldn't be here. Public drunkenness was illegal. He would go back and sleep it off in his car. Was that legal? He couldn't remember. Three years of law school, the youngest ever to graduate from Princeton, and he couldn't remember. Worry about legal later. The door was rattling. Someone was opening it. Nice of them. He hadn't even knocked. Had he? He'd kicked over something, he knew that. How much noise had he made?  
And there was Alexander Hamilton in the doorway, looking confused, looking concerned, looking damnably awake even as lightness crept along the edges of the sky. "Burr? Aaron Burr? What the hell are you doing?"  
He sounded amused; he sounded honestly interested. He sounded almost glad.  
Burr would have liked to disappear below the porch-boards. He shook his head. No. Definitely not me. Forget I was here. He hated Hamilton, hated the man's cheerful rivalry, hated everything in the world and most of all himself.  
"You're drunk."  
Burr shook his head again, automatically disagreeing with whatever Hamilton thought, but -- "Can't drive. You're close by."  
Hamilton still hadn't moved from the doorframe. "How did you know where I live?"  
"Theo -- Theodosia -- she took Theo home with Philip home once or twice. I came to get her. Once."

(Burr didn't want to go inside. Make small talk with Alexander fucking Hamilton about kids and school projects and dioramas and the best way to glue sequins? No thank you. And it was raining, and his umbrella was lost somewhere, and it was nice to be alone awhile, it was peaceful ... so he sat, waiting, looking out at the rain that fell and fell and fell. Eventually Theo had come out, laughing at him, smelling like someone else's family, someone else's child.   
At supper he watched her carefully: Was she quieter, more thoughtful? Did she want something she couldn't get at home? What had she seen, done, thought, that might worm into her heart and destroy her fragile happiness? But  Theo was only a little sleepy; they'd played outside until it got too cold and the rain started, and Mr Hamilton cooked lunch, not very good but she ate it anyway, and he knew every one of the books she and Phil had read for school and then they played duets on the piano. Mr Hamilton wasn't very good at that either, but Philip was okay.  
Burr came to bed and undressed slowly, thinking this over.  
_You worry too much,_ said his wife. She turned off the light and crawled into bed. _She'll be fine._  
_I didn't say --_ he started off, all indignance: then he was laughing with her.  
_You don't need to tell me_ , said Theodosia, nearly asleep. _I know you. I love you._ )

The streetlamps flickered.  
Thinking of Theodosia had been a mistake. Burr shut his eyes. If he started crying, here and now, he would absolutely not forgive himself. He would shoot himself. And if goddamned Alexander Hamilton saw him cry, well, Burr would just shoot him too, that was all. He rubbed his coat-sleeve over his face. "I should go." (Go where?)  
A pair of hands went under his shoulders, lifting, drawing him upwards and supporting his weight -- it couldn't be Hamilton, that was impossible, the guy was small enough for a gust of wind to push him over -- and then they were inside the house, together inside the house.  
"We can't talk here, it carries upstairs, and Philip is asleep, we'll have to go to my office --" Hamilton was boiling water in a bright blue kettle, setting the flame up high, restlessly pushing back his hair as he worked though it fell again in his face the next moment; the color of the gas matched the color of the kettle, leaping upward, blue against blue, it was terribly distracting -- "and get your car tomorrow. Anyway, Burr, who's staying with Theo?"  
"Someone. Neighbor. Some neighbor."  
Hamilton glanced up; he seemed ready to argue but (for a wonder) thought better of it. "Tea. You need tea, that's clear enough. I put enough water for us both. What type do you want? If you had to choose? Black? White? Green? Sub-varieties? We have rather a lot ..."   
He was like a puppy jumping up and down, begging for affection. Any minute now he would pee all over the floor. "Tea?"  
"Yes, Burr. Tea. To fight whatever is in your stomach, because I do not want it coming back out on my nice leather chair -- Come on. Focus. Tea. Choose, choose, choose."  
Burr hated tea. He hated everything. It wasn't even really daylight yet. How could the man be so fucking awake? What the hell had he been doing at five am? Why wouldn't he stop _talking?_ "Herbal," he said, to be contrary, and the kettle whistled. Hamilton filled two mismatched mugs and dunked in a teabag -- cheap, off-brand stuff, with a staple and a string and a little tag -- and he carried them both together in one hand, fingers looped through the handle. Show-off.  
"Come on. This way."  
Dog-like, Burr followed.

The office matched Hamilton's public persona: an enthusiastic mess, pushed along by new money. Nothing was _right_. The leather of the single chair didn't match the tone of the sofa; the fixtures were pewter instead of bronzed; the books were --  
Burr settled on the sofa and wrapped both hands around his mug. What did he care if Hamilton couldn't decorate? Not at all.  
The other man sat down, folding his leg in, tilted awkardly to look at Burr. "I'm surprised you're here."  
"Nobody I care about is over this way. Good place to drink."  
Hamilton stared at his mug. "Ah. Well. It's good to have company. Even unexpectedly. I thought," he said, "I really thought you hated me."  
Astute. And jarringly forthright. Burr shouldn't have been surprised by the perception or the frankness, but that was the real trouble, wasn't it? Burr kept underestimating this man. Foolish move. He slurped his tea -- it was barely cool enough to drink and still hot enough that he couldn't really taste it. Good. Perfect. "Why would you think that I hate you?"  
"Because you do."  
Okay. That was too much; it was definitely time for Burr to leave. He set down the mug carefully on an unattractive, clumsily-made coaster. Philip's work. It had to be. Theo had made one just like it -- except better. "Thank you very much for --"  
"You're not going?"  
"You just insulted me."  
"I did not. Or if I did, I'm sorry. Burr, does it -- do you really not know how you come across to people? You're incredible in court, I'll give you that, succinct and persuasive -- and, you know, this is embarrassing," (but Hamilton didn't look embarrassed, he looked pleased with both himself and with Burr) "I've spent _hours_ trying to figure out what makes you so damned good and I cannot suss it out, you barely say anything at all and it's what you say is perfectly _fine_ but it's not even clever really, and you still --"  
Oh sweet Jesus. Burr couldn't take this sort of insult, not tonight, not now. One more minute of this incessant rattling barrage -- on more moment of Hamilton being so consistently _Hamilton_ \-- and Burr really would do something stupid -- even more stupid than coming here, coming in, accepting tea.  
He couldn't get up and leave, could he? Wouldn't that be rude? But he couldn't deal with Hamilton, he could not. So he shut his eyes. An old trick. He'd learned it as a child in church, unable to accept the preacher's ranting. Hold still, stay quiet, wait and wait, and you can make anything go away -- and poof went Hamilton's office, over-crowded with furniture and books and stuffy with dust; away with the rattling monologue; gone the odd burnt texture to his mouth. Even the tears would go away if he held still enough, long enough.  
Hamilton stopped mid-sentence.  
Burr had forgotten that Hamilton paid attention to things. He hadn't counted on that. He hadn't counted on Hamilton pulling at him again, making him sit again, taking off his coat now, making him lean back, putting a warm hand against his forehead like Burr was a sick child, and "Here, drink" -- the horrible tea again.  
And Hamilton was sitting next to him now, too goddamned close. He put an arm over Burr's shoulders like they were something more than coworkers. Like they were friends.  
They were not friends. They were barely acquaintances.  
Burr shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward but the arm stayed and the hand curled and somehow -- somehow -- Aaron Burr had his head on Hamilton's shoulder and now he was actually crying while that warm hand rubbed his back and neck. Oh he would never forgive himself for this! But dimly he realized it was -- reassuring -- to be held like this, even by Hamilton. It was comforting. It was nice.  
"Burr? Are you ... are you crying?"  
He didn't bother to answer. He stayed still, breathing in the smell of generic laundry detergent and expensive aftershave and the peculiar tone of warm skin. He couldn't lift his face and speak to this awful man. And that was fine. He didn't need to say anything. He would collapse to the floor and crawl out the door and go home and take his daughter and then -- well, they would just have to move, that's all, because he certainly couldn't take the chance of meeting this man again at work.  
"Burr?"   
Hands on his shoulders, pushing him upright again -- he must think Burr had no spine, like a jellyfish -- well, he _was_ spineless, he _was_ a jellyfish, maybe he and Theo could move into the ocean, they'd have a permanently aquatic existence, that had possibilities --   
Drawbacks: Theo's education would suffer in a school of fish.   
Benefits: No more Alexander Hamilton, not ever.  
Thumbs swept outward across his eyelids. "Burr?" He sounded plaintive, almost timid; he was asking permission for something. It was ridiculous. It was laughable.  
"You," Burr started; the words died in his throat. He'd meant to be rude, cutting, vitriolic: _You sound like a kid begging for ice cream money!_ \-- but those hands cupped his chin -- just for one moment. That was worse than crying a damp spot on Hamilton's shoulder. That was much much worse. He opened his mouth again to argue down the situation. He knew himself with a sudden and appalling clarity. He understood why he had been so (yes) rude to Hamilton, over and over, why he took such pleasure in trouncing him during court, and the answer was far far worse than any petty jealousy of good looks and a quick smile. And if he didn't stop this -- stop it right now before it happened -- then Hamilton would know it too. If he didn't know already.  
He shuddered. The weight of grief and whiskey and a very late night and the gentle pressure of skin on skin held him in, held him still, making him obedient, for once, to what Hamilton wanted.   
Hamilton looked -- scared. His eyes were shut tight -- thank god -- and he moved and stopped and moved and stopped and finally made a terrible face at himself and moved again, and Burr flinched back but not fast enough, their mouths met, and --

Burr was an atheist. His grandfather was a preacher, his childhood was spent in the family pew, and for all the strict aesthetic privation of his uncle's household -- and a great deal of personal seeking -- all young Aaron ever found in church was old books, old words, and dust. He told Theodosia the closest thing to religion he'd ever found was at the tail end of an orgasm. It brought him a moment of peace. It cleared the clutter in his mind, for a while.  
_You are my church,_ he'd said, running his hand over the curve of her hip.  
She'd curled against him. _Aaron --_

Hamilton was not like Theodosia; he was nothing like religion. There was nothing of quietness here at all, nothing of god. He might well be Satan, thought Burr; a tempter, who weareth pleasing forms and gentle guises. His mouth was warm and dry and firm and he didn't move it away too soon, and after a second of this Burr was able to breathe again and that mouth parted slightly against his and a tongue came out, delicate, tasting, and Burr wanted -- he wanted -- something was opening in his chest and he _wanted it --_  
He couldn't bear this.   
He jumped up.  
The mug of tea on its unbalanced coaster tipped over, unto a pile of papers and several books; Burr swore in a mix of French and English.  
"Burr, don't worry about it. You don't need to -- look, I didn't need that stuff anyway, I was just keeping it to -- dammit!"  
Because Burr was mopping at the mess with his own coat, on hands and knees, shaking out papers. It didn't work very well. He gave up, stood up, and looked across the room at the Prince of Darkness. "I'll buy you a new one. Whatever it is."  
"You don't need to!" Hamilton dragged his hands through his hair, looking exasperated and exhausted. "I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted -- you looked so -- and I wanted ... Okay, so, right, it's obvious what I wanted." He crossed his arms across his chest, looking very much as he'd looked delivering his first case: embarrassed and scared and brave and proud and young.   
It was untenable. Burr folded the damp, sticky coat -- it was ruined, it would need to be thrown out -- and tried to gather his thoughts. Nothing came.  
Of course Alexander Hamilton did not need to think before speaking and therefore was never at a loss for words. "Aaron -- I really am sorry. I didn't mean to do any of that. I mean, I wanted to, I definitely _wanted_ to, I've been wanting to do that for so long -- but I didn't intend to do it. If that makes sense. I didn't know if ... I mean, you're married, you're married to a _woman_ , and you never give any sign ..." He reached out.   
Burr stepped back.  
"I know you're married," said Hamilton, quietly; he scrubbed at his hair. "I should have asked. It was wrong of me. I don't know what sort of rules you have with Theodosia, it's none of my business of course, absolutely not, but -- Burr, if you did want to -- with me -- if that was something you wanted -- you would let me know, right? Because I would love to -- something. With you. You, in particular. I would like that very very very much." The blush deepened; he was very very very red in the face. He paused for breath.  
Burr curled his fingernails into the damn fabric of his ruined coat. "It's fine."  
"It is obviously, absolutely, transparently clear that it is not fine."  
"It's not you."  
"Of course it's me. First I kissed you; then you jumped a mile in the air. A straight line of causality. Demonstrable evidence."  
"This is why you're a terrible lawyer," Burr snapped. "You're missing key evidence points."  
Hamilton visibly flinched. "Yes. I left out the part where you hate me."  
"Goddammit, must everything be about you?"  
And those dark eyes went wide, that broad mouth actually shut; Hamilton sat on the sofa. He looked at his hands. He didn't speak. (Had he really never considered that before?)  
Burr counted to ten in French _(une deux tois quatre cinq)_ and counted it over again in English, still unable to decide. Go or stay? Stay or go? He would be a happier man if this entire evening could be forgotten, but -- he had been rude -- he needed to make some sort of apology --  
Finally: "My wife died."  
Hamilton jerked his head up. "Aaron --"  
"Her funeral was today. Yesterday, now."  
_"Aaron --"_  
"You knew she was ill."  
"Of course, but --"  
"So," said Burr, "you see: it's not you."  
"Why didn't you tell me? Did you tell anyone? Was anyone there for you -- you and Theo? Aaron, I would have --"  
Oh, really? "What exactly would you have done?"  
"You shouldn't have been alone."  
"I wanted to be alone."  
"That's why you shouldn't be."  
Well, that made as much sense as anything else tonight. But they had to stop talking about this or he would be crying again in a minute. He took a deep breath. "It's fine."  
Hamilton looked away. "I'm doubly sorry for kissing you, now."  
"It's fine."  
"Aaron, _it is not fine_ \--"  
"Burr," snapped Burr.  
"Burr," said Hamilton, in an odd voice -- was he teasing? "Yes, sir, Mr Burr, sir."  
Burr rubbed the back of his neck; he didn't know what was happening, he couldn't _think,_  he was so tired and the beer was still making his head spin unpleasantly. "I'm not angry. I'm just tired. I don't hate you." Past bone and muscle and blood, this tiredness. He could lay down and sleep, and sleep ...  
Hamilton turned away, starting to gather up the ruined papers. "You do. It's all right. It's fine. I can't blame you. I'll just -- these needed to be thrown out anyway." The line of his back looked defeated. Impossible. The man never even accepted losing a court case. And yet there it was.  
Burr should leave. He was being given an easy out. He should take his things and go away and they would never speak of this again. Instead he shifted on his feet, watching Hamilton scramble around. "Alexander."   
The rumpled head jerked up. "I'm sorry -- what?"  
"I don't hate you."  
No reply.  
"It seems we were both mistaken on that point." (At least his wit was dry, if his coat was not.)   
The lovely eyes stared up and the moments ticked by and then he stood up straight, moving closer, dropping papers all around as he paid that unwavering, unnerving focus to Burr -- who looked away. "You've never called me by my first name before. Never. It's always Hamilton You Damned Nuisance, or Hamilton Could You Please Stop Talking, or Hamilton You --"  
"Hamilton, could you stop talking? Please? I need to know you understand."  
The damned nuisance crossed the room and stood nearby -- very near. He raised a hand and this time Burr very nearly fled, abandoning dignity and coat both -- but Hamilton only pushed back a lock of his own hair. "I understand you, Aaron Burr," he said; his voice sounded strange. If there was mockery, it was very well-hidden. And if he wasn't making fun --  
Burr had lost his train of thought. Again. "I was saying --"  
"You were saying that you're drunk and grieving and you don't know how much of tonight is real and how much of it is loneliness."  
"I certainly didn't say all that --"  
"You don't need to say it. I'm saying it for you. And I'm here for you, Burr, You Snobby Ass. For whenever you figure it out. That is," he said (finally taking a breath), "I am here if you want me to be here. And I'll disappear if you'd rather. Well, I can't disappear _literally_ but I'll be silent as a mouse. Really I can be. And if you don't want me at all -- or not like that -- I will take you however I can get you, because I -- I actually like you, impossible as that seems. And I think we can be friends. Real friends. I know you don't -- you don't really like me just yet -- but you'll learn. I'm impossible and I talk too much and I can't ever stop arguing, but you'll see. Just you wait for it. This is fate. Honest." And finally, finally, he stopped.  
"How long have you bottled all that up?"  
"Give me your coat. You're going to sleep in my bed tonight. I promise it's clean, I usually sleep on the sofa anyway ... Meanwhile I'm going to wash your coat, you'll just throw it out if I let you hang on to it, and you only have the two, and this black one is much nicer than that plaid monstrosity, I can't believe your wife let you buy it. After that I'm going to take a shower and make some coffee and then I'm going to go over and find young Theo and this random neighbor whose name you didn't even bother to learn (really Burr, you are the worst) and I'll tell them that you didn't fall off the face of the earth, and then --"

 Hamilton's bed was very soft and very wide -- much too wide for one person. Aaron Burr curled up in the middle and fell asleep at once, mouth slightly parted against the pillow, dreaming of tea and his wife.


	2. Talk Less.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Burr gives his coworker (friend?) a lesson in not talking, the spice increases somewhat, ~~and I cannot seem to fix my formatting~~

Theodosia was buried on a Wednesday.   
Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday Burr stayed as drunk as possible.   
Monday he went back to work and life became -- somehow -- worse.  
One or two people greeted him normally. The others looked up and said awkward things. He ignored them. He had work to do.  
... except that Alexander Hamilton had already done it. His notes were marked all over in a tight, careful handwriting, complete with little arrows and question marks (and unbelievably, a smiley face). Some of it was interesting; all of it was presumptuous and rude beyond words.  
He slammed shut the folder and tucked it under his arm and stomped down the hallway to go yell at the arrogant intrusive loudmouth who thought that it was okay to go marking up someone else's notes -- and stopped.  
Hamilton.  
He'd have to  _talk to Hamilton_.  
The man would be wearing some ridiculously un-coordinated outfit; he'd be drinking too much coffee; his hair would be tied back. He'd be rattling off some nonsense.  
And the last time they'd met, they'd kissed. He'd seen him cry; he'd touched him.   
And Burr had slept in his bed. Alone, but --  
It was way too early in the morning to deal with all that.  
Burr turned on his heel and went back to his office and shut the door, swearing in German this time. 

Knock.

Burr ignored this. The door was shut for a reason. Did he need to put up a sign? I DO NOT WANT COMPANY YES HAMILTON THAT MEANS YOU.  
Knock knock knock  _knockknockknock_  --   
"What do you want?" said Burr, through his teeth, through the wood.  
"I thought you might want lunch."  
"No."  
"You need to eat."  
" _No_ , Hamilton."  
A silence. Then: "Aaron --"  
Burr opened the door for that. Nobody called him Aaron, not ever, except his wife; the name woke up alarm bells in his stomach. He didn't want his sticky emotional business aired in the hallways, he had to do something about this man --  
But Hamilton had a brown bag and a straight face: he wasn't teasing. "We went out to lunch. The others wanted to invite you, treat you, something -- a condolence call I guess -- I told them no," hurriedly, seeing Burr's face. "And I won't stay here and bother you myself, I know you don't want the company. But will you eat at least? Because you need to eat."  
Burr eyed the bag. "What is it?"  
"You need to sleep too. You look terrible. Did you spend the entire weekend drunk?"  
Was that an allusion? "Not all of it. Is this your leftovers you're pressing on me?"  
"I don't have leftovers, Aaron Burr. I clean my plate like a good boy. Is Theo doing okay? Do you know how to cook for her?"  
"I am sure that I can cook better than you can."  
Turkey. A turkey sandwich on thick bread, rough with sprouts, wrapped in waxed paper. Had he ever told Hamilton he liked turkey? or sprouts? or sandwiches? Or food, for that matter?   
It smelled good. He crumpled the bag shut and made a face.  
Hamilton was still going on. "I can bring something over for her --"  
"You don't know where I live."  
"So give me your address. I can read a map."  
Burr considered this.  
Hamilton looked clean, refreshed, well-groomed. Maybe slightly better groomed than usual. Or maybe he wasn't, maybe that was Burr's imagination. Who could tell? Had he ever paid attention to another man's appearance before?  
_We'll be friends,_  he'd said.   
_It's fate,_  he'd said.  
Fate was never a good thing. Fate took away his parents when he was just a child; fate introduced him to Theodosia Prevost, a lawfully married woman, and made his heart beat hard when she smiled. Fate made her a widow and made him a widower and left their daughter sobbing alone in her room, muffling the sound in her pillow because she didn't want to upset him with her own pain. Fate was an untrustworthy bastard. And Hamilton was looking like a similar problem. But he'd mentioned Theo, and his son was in her classes. They got along. And Theo needed more friends. Especially now.   
Burr would make friends with any number of unscrupulous, tricky bastards for the sake of his daughter. "I suppose you and Philip could come for supper," he said.  
Hamilton took a deep breath -- he could read out the contents of a dictionary on a single exhale -- visibly held back whatever he wanted to say -- nodded -- and left.   
A quick learner. That was good.   
The sandwich was good, too.

The Hamiltons brought supper for the Burrs.  
It was definitely edible.

Afterwards Philip showed Theo how to properly throw and catch a baseball -- one of the things Burr could not or would not learn. In return, she taught him how to spit at distance and with deadly aim, like certain species of frog. God knew where she'd learned that charming behavior. At least she was laughing again. For now.  
"Does it bother you? Theo and Phillip?"  
They were cleaning the dishes on Burr's insistence, ostensibly because he didn't want the Hamiltons to forget their lasagna dish, in reality because the idea of having plasticware inscribed A. HAM in his cupboards made him feel a little queasy, as if the next step were sharing a toothbrush.  
"Why should it bother me?"  
"When she plays with more boys than girls."  
Burr had a deep and abiding interest in the female sex -- both as a feminist and on a more personal level. He refrained from a treatise and said only: "Most girls are encouraged to be thoughtless and frittering. We wanted Theo to be more direct."   
Hamilton watched them out the window. "She's an extraordinary child."  
"You should have known her mother."

They'd met at a party.  
He'd noticed her, asked about her, told himself to let it go: she was  _married,_ and even Burr had rules. He said hello anyway. Only  _hello_. And because she smiled slow, because her eyes were dark and warm, he extended a hand.  
She took it, laughing.  _Theodosia. Theodosia Prevost._  
_Aaron Burr,_  he'd said.  
They were quiet together a moment; Burr swallowed down what he wanted to say; he released her fingers, awkwardly late.  
Then  _I'm married_ , she said.  
_I know._  
And that was that.  
He tried to enjoy the night, tried to flirt with other women, but his eyes kept returning to her and sometimes she was looking at him too and after a while he gave in and brought her over a cup of lemonade: cold and tart.  
She accepted the drink.  _Thank you._  
_Now you are no longer thirsty_.  
_But I am still married_ , she said.  
_Alas for me,_  said Burr.  _Where is the Colonel?  
__Stationed overseas, in Georgia,_ she said, and smiled.

In a week they were lovers; in a month it was a public scandal, probably because neither Mr Burr nor Mrs Prevost could be bothered to act appropriately in public; they openly flirted, openly touched, openly argued; they all but lived together while she was married and her husband quartered in Europe.  
When her husband died (a nasty flu; Burr felt quite indebted to the disease and wrote a poor sonnet in its praise), they were married as soon as it was permissible, counting the requirements of social decency and the church Theodosia attended.  
_You don't really believe in that stuff_ , he'd argued, annoyed with her hypocrisy, annoyed with this further delay.  
_No_ , she said,  _I don't. But I want there to be a God more than I want to be right._

Nowadays Burr found himself wishing the same thing. He lay in bed at night -- their bed -- and tried to find that presence, that elusive spark of hope. Nothing came but tears and restlessness and, sometimes, sleep. How could he bear the closing away of great minds in the silent earth? He was not resigned --

Work continued, endlessly busy, balm and bane. Hamilton continued to bring him lunch two and three days a week, though Burr never reciprocated, scarcely thanked, and absolutely never requested the help; on Tuesdays and Thursdays (alternating Saturdays) the Burrs met the Hamiltons for a shared meal. It was all right. It was more than all right. Theo really liked Phillip, said he was clever even though he was a full year younger than her, and Burr -- well, Burr was learning to deal with Alexander Hamilton.   
Neither one of them so much as alluded to the evening of the funeral. At least one of them felt the sincere wish to forget it entirely. He did not care what Hamilton thought or felt or wanted, he told himself. Especially not in any loverlike capacity. He could barely tolerate the man as a coworker -- much less as a friend.

The day came when they lost a case. Burr didn't much care, it happened, the money would be nice, but --  
Meanwhile, Hamilton looked absolutely stricken. Then his head went down and he started shuffling thru notes again, frowning.  
He missed their standing lunch date.  
He missed the five o'clock meeting at the bar downtown with John Laurens and Margaret Schuyler, and Schuyler sent Burr a text to see if he knew what was going on.  
_no idea. H still here_ , he sent. He wouldn't have bothered to reply to Laurens, who seemed to bear some personal grudge, but he'd always liked the clever, laughing Peggy. So for the first time in the several years they'd worked together, he knocked on Hamilton's office door. The noise went thru his brain like a gunshot. Surely everyone in the world had heard it and knew what it meant.  
No answer.  
"Hamilton, I know you're in there."  
Noises, rustling. The door opened.  
"My god," said the atheist. "You look like shit. And it's past quitting time; your friends are waiting."  
"Oh -- John, yes. And Peggy. I forgot. I was going over those records, the Weeks case --"  
"We lost."  
"But we shouldn't have! We had everything! The documentation was there, records from her doctor, even her dentist agreed she was depressed, 'strange affect' he said, and I tracked down her old roommate -- maybe I should have called her sooner to the stand --"  
Burr pushed the smaller man away from the door (what was  _with_  Hamilton and standing in doorframes) until he could move inside the office and -- and see the complete mess of papers and folders all over the floor. Was all this the Weeks case? Sweet  _Jesus._  
"Hamilton," he said, interrupting the talk that was still going on somehow, "Weeks murdered her. That is why we lost the case. That is it. Stop worrying. You didn't do anything wrong. Go home. Or go drink. Whatever."  
"But --"  
Oh god, he was still arguing. He was still upset. And Burr didn't want to ask why he was so upset, he really didn't; he had a terrible suspicion that Hamilton would actually _explain_ and then they'd have to _talk_ about it ... but it had been three months of suppers brought over, homework help for Theo (not that she needed it), the kids playing in the postage-stamp-sized yard. Field trips. Painfully inept duets on the piano. And all that time Burr had done -- well, not much of anything, really, except cry and work and drink, sometimes at the same time. Certainly he'd done nothing for  _Hamilton._ So he gritted his teeth. "Why is this bothering you so much?"  
The other man turned slightly red.  
Burr opened and shut his mouth, like a fish. He felt stupid. Why did this man make him feel stupid? What had he missed? "I'll go."  
"No. It's fine. It's -- Burr, are you really -- come back here! Sit. It's fine. I just," he said, and took a deep breath, "I could have used the money. Phil's tuition isn't cheap, you know? Not to mention my school loans. And gas keeps going up. Rent, the electric. His uniforms. My Starbucks addiction. Haircuts, new shoes, it's everything, I swear, the older Phil gets the more he eats. And I usually brown-bag it but I'm still paying for your --" He stopped.  
Unbelievable. "Hamilton, you ridiculous -- have you honestly been buying me lunch and going hungry yourself?"  
"I'm not going hungry," protested a now-very-red Alex. "I eat."  
"You know what I mean. Stop dithering."  
"I just --" Hamilton ran hands though his hair, agitated and guilty. He sat down at his chair and put his hands together in his lap. His hair (usually tied back, more or less neatly) was loose around his face; his cheeks were still pink with embarrassment; he was biting down on his lip. Everything about him was distracting. And so Burr looked away.  
Hamilton said, speaking very fast: "I don't think you have anyone who cares for you."  
"I don't think you have anyone who cares for you."  
"I don't need --"  
Hamilton shut his eyes, apparently to help him more easily ignore Burr. "And I wanted to do something. I  _need_ to do something. Your wife died just a few months ago, you don't have any friends --"  
"I have  _plenty_ of --"  
"And I  _like_ you, Aaron Burr. God knows why. I must be a masochist. You're abrupt and rude and abrasive --"  
"Rude? Dammit, I am  _never_ \--"  
"But your daughter is clever and funny, and she tells stories about you that make me think -- they make me think, Maybe there's something underneath all that. Maybe someone just needs to get to know him."  
Burr thought that he just might kill his beloved daughter when he saw her tonight. Telling stories about him, the hussy. What had she said? To whom?  
"And sometimes you'll do something, say something, that is so -- so kind. I saw what you did for that Reynolds woman."  
"Maria Reynolds was a client."  
"Yes. She was. And after she wasn't your client anymore, as soon as you could legally do something about it, you tracked her down and found her more aid, things that we can't do here, things that might not be perfectly legal but are perfectly moral -- Burr, that's -- "  
"James Reynolds is a violent sot. She only needed --"  
"Are you even listening? I am trying to give you a compliment and you can't even --"  
It was too much; it had been too much. Burr crossed the room in two steps and leaned over the chair and took a handful of shirt and kissed that broad mouth -- hard -- just to shut it up.  
Then he stepped back out of arm's reach. Deep breath. "Look."  
Hamilton didn't move; his eyes were wide and a slow gulp moved down his throat. "Aaron --"  
"You talk too much. Have you ever thought of not talking?"  
" _Aaron_ \--"  
"You're still at it."  
Alexander swallowed again and said nothing.  
Burr dragged over another chair and sat down in front of his -- in front of Hamilton. "I don't need you to take care of me."  
"But --"  
"I don't need you to do --" He stopped himself, tried again. "I don't need anything from you. You are not anything to me."  
Hamilton looked stricken. He said nothing.  
"I didn't mean -- dammit, I cannot talk when I'm around you! Why is that? How do you aggravate me to the point of -- Look, now I sound like you, all em dashes and stuttering. Okay." He rubbed his hands on his thighs. "I don't want you to take care of me; I don't want you to starve yourself to feed me. I didn't want that from my  _wife_ for god's sake, I certainly don't want it from some man who is only my cowor --"  
Alexander reached very slowly for a cup of coffee on the table; he took it and lifted it to his mouth and replaced it on the table again, all without moving his gaze from Burr's face.  
"I can hear you thinking," said Burr, annoyed. Alexander smiled slow and smug. "Fine. So. You are not only my coworker. So what are you to me?"  
Hamilton scootched forward on the chair, wiggling a little -- a puppy trying to learn obedience. God, his eyes were lovely. Dark and expressive and (just now) soft with emotion. Why did he bother talking when he had those eyes? He could just -- he could --   
This was ridiculous. Burr made a face at himself. "Speak. I know you're dying inside. Trying to repress all that enthusiasm must be painful. Absolute hell."  
Still not talking, moving slow and careful like a man approaching an injured animal, Alexander got up. He tilted up Burr's face and kissed him softly; then he pulled back away the smallest distance. He kept his hands on his face; he kept their bodies close, close, so close that their warmth mingled.  
Burr was having trouble thinking. "Alex --"  
Another kiss. This one was not as gentle. And now hands were involved, and somehow Alex was sitting on his lap, twisted around in a way that looked painful but Burr didn't feel it himself so he didn't much care, and anyway Hamilton wasn't complaining, he wasn't speaking at all, he had finally found a way to make Hamilton shut up and it was the most marvelous thing imaginable.  
They pulled apart, both breathing hard.  
Hamilton's hair was sticking up in odd places; his cheeks were flushed again and his eyes were dreamy and his mouth (oh god that mouth, that sweet and greedy mouth) -- it was swollen now, probably from Burr's teeth. Well, he certainly didn't regret doing it and Alexander didn't seem to mind either; he licked at it and smiled. He looked like a fool.  
Burr felt rather foolish himself. He adjusted his shirt and cleared his throat, trying and failing to regain some sense of composure. "Well. It's like I told you before, Hamilton: you just need to talk less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Burr did help out Maria Reynolds! He (successfully) represented her divorce proceedings and, afterwards, found Maria a place to live, a job, and an education for her daughter.
> 
> I have no idea if Burr or Theodosia Sr. were atheists; he was characteristically quiet about religion.  
> They did flirt shamelessly in public though. That's true.
> 
> "I am not resigned" is from the Edna St Vincent Millay poem [Dirge Without Music](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/52773). I wrote this fic in first days after the nightclub massacre in Orlando; for a while afterwards all I could think of was Lin Miranda's sonnet at the Tonys and Millay's words:  
>  _Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave._  
>  _I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned._


	3. Aaron, meaning miraculous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamilton and Burr discuss vegetable emojii, argue over who is more argumentative, and find a shared interest. (Thanks, Peggy!)
> 
> The kissing continues to increase in frequency & heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once saw a trio of rabbits chasing each other around and around in a circle, playing. Adorable beyond words.
> 
> and Alex Hamilton would have fucking LOVED emojiis, he'd text eggplants to Aaron all day long, just because he was an irritating piece of work  
> that's my headcanon and you will never take it away from me NEVER

Aaron Burr liked to got to sleep on time and get up early, barring more pleasant distractions. A single cup of tea with supper would keep him awake all hours (to say nothing of coffee) so he drank water or beer or wine or anything at all, really, that would let his eyes stay closed and his mind rest.

Sleep was more important now, since Theodosia was dead. Sometimes in sleep he could go and speak with her; he could see that quick flash of laughter in her eyes; he could tell her how terribly much he missed her, how much their daughter missed her, how much the whole goddamned world suffered, even without knowing it, because she was gone.

She never spoke; she only listened. And she smiled. She touched his hand. 

Burr woke with a jolt, heart beating too fast, alone now in the bed they had shared, aroused and unhappy. He listened desperately for the sound of her footstep or her voice or the soft noise of her breathing next to him. He'd roll on his side and put his face in her pillow and tried to catch that elusive scent, gone now, too fast. And sleep fled.

Of course now he could scarcely fall asleep in the first place. He thought  _Hamilton -- Theodosia -- Hamilton_  in an endless circle, each chasing the other's tail like rabbits playing and dancing just out of reach. He tried to smother these thoughts and lost.

It wasn't guilt. He didn't feel guilty. He did not agree with the idea of guilt, much less give in to its residence in his person. And anway, his wife was dead. Self-denial would not bring her back.

But.

Hamilton. 

Whatever was going on was a mess. Burr hated a mess. He didn't know what  _he_ wanted from this thing, much less what _Alexander_ wanted, much less how much he was willing to give -- and his first inclination was to deny that outrageous aggravation of a human anything he asked for simply because he'd asked for it, simply because he could not shut up about wanting it. How could anyone live so openly -- so unguarded -- so damned _confident_ that what he wanted would come to him? 

Well, Burr had no intention of abetting anyone's winning streak. He would just -- he'd just -- never speak to him again, that was all. He'd stop accepting lunch (he would absolutely stop accepting lunch) and stop letting Theo play with Philip -- well, maybe not that one, how could he tell her no? -- and every word out of his mouth would be about work. If Hamilton asked about his weekend, he would say "I spent it at the office." Simple. Easy. Done. Give nothing. Shut down conversation. He could do that. He'd spent  _years_ doing that. 

And then -- then his wife died. And he'd started crying. On Alexander. Breathing in the smell of his hair.

And then --

Burr made a horrible noise, rolled over, and put his face in his pillow.

  
Things did not work out exactly as planned. For one thing, Hamilton wasn't at work at all. The man never took a sick day -- ever -- so this meant something terrible had happened, which meant he might be dead in a ditch somewhere, which meant Burr might  never have the opportunity to scorn and shun him. 

Typical Hamilton. 

So Burr worked in his own office. He kept the door open today to catch a sight or sound of the dratted nonsense if he were to return. "It's stuffy," he explained when Peggy stopped by. She was a sensible being and therefore did not ask questions -- which consideration somehow entitled her to answers.

"Ah," she said, and regarded him evenly.

"What do you need?"

"Nothing. I wanted to see how you're doing."

Burr stared. But he'd always been comfortable with Peggy, so -- "Schuyler -- you know I like you, right? As a person."

She gave him an odd look. "Ayesss. I'm a lawyer. I'm pretty good at reading people. I managed to figure that one out on my own."

"Do you like me?"

She laughed aloud this time. "Yeah, Burr. You're okay."

"Hamilton thinks I hate him."  

Well, maybe he didn't think that anymore ...

"Hamilton thinks that of anyone who doesn't fawn all over him. Hamilton is an idiot."

Burr blinked. "I think he's quite intelligent."

"Oh, he's smart. But he's an idiot. So are you."

"What?"

"You don't get _people,_ Burr. You didn't understand that I'm your friend, and we've been talking like this for -- how long?"

"Six years," he said automatically. "But that doesn't mean anything."

She shrugged. "Not to you. But it means something to most people, and it means something to Alex, and he knows it doesn't mean something to you, and that's why he thinks you hate him. Anyway. Let me know if he shows up, will you? I have a problem that's right up his alley."

Burr opened his mouth to say  _I am not looking for Alexander_  but shut it again. 

She laughed at him. Good-natured Peggy. "I told you -- I'm good at this." 

Shit.

 

Burr was head-down and actually focusing on work when he heard the voice he'd been waiting to hear. Something like relief flooded his body. It was almost sickening. It didn't matter. He ignored it. He kept working. 

Another hour -- two hours -- three -- and people began to trickle out of the building. Most of them had been there since dawn. Burr had also been there since dawn. But who cared, it was Friday, Theo was staying overnight with a friend, he had time to kill, why not stay a bit -- why not keep working -- 

Because he couldn't bloody well concentrate, that was why. He opened the door and checked the hallway. Clear. 

So.

He took a stack of papers (to have deniability if anyone caught him at this) and very very casually went in Hamilton's office without bothering to knock. 

Hamilton was sitting on the floor, one leg stretched out in front of him, scribbling something on a paper. 

He looked up, mouth agape, openly astonished.

Burr tossed his papers on the desk and shut the door. Too bad it didn't have a lock. He leaned against it, just in case. Not that he was doing anything compromising, well nothing worse than being here in the first place, but --

"Burr? I didn't think you -- what are you doing? Is something wrong? What's is it? What's wrong? Is it Theo? Oh god, is it Phil?"

"You weren't here on time," said Burr, and regretted it immediately.

Hamilton went very still. His eyes were enormous. "Nooooo, I was late. My tire was flat. It took a while. And then I still had to take Philip to school, but he was late and they had to sign him in, it was this big," he gestured emphatically, "procedure. Worse than court, really. Except without the metal detectors. So I didn't need to take off my belt. Did you worry about me?"

"I -- no."

Alexander drew up his legs, sitting cross-legged, craning his neck awkwardly. "You can say yes."

"I didn't."

"Okay."

They stared at each other.

Looking wary, Hamilton said: "I would love your company at any other time, but --"

"It's no problem, I'll leave -- "

"Unless you wanted to help. Which I would appreciate, actually. Two heads, and all that."

Burr gave him a long look and pretended to deeply weigh the options. In fact he was counting by sevens down from one hundred.

At forty-nine he sighed, as if the entire thing were quite an imposition; at zero he gracefully sat nearby to Hamilton -- close, but not at all touching. "What do you have? Let me see that."

"It's from Peggy --"

 

 They worked together very well -- at least, when they shared a common goal. Peggy was right: Hamilton really was smart. (Of course Burr was brilliant, too. Hadn't he graduated college both faster and younger than Alex?)

And Hamilton was quick to jump to conclusions, taking great leaps of logic and trust -- which Burr was absolutely not, categorically not; he needed to see a problem from every possible side before deciding on the single best route. He almost always choose correctly, though. Meanwhile Hamilton failed as often as he won.

Burr chewed on his pen, considering this.

Meanwhile: Alexander Hamilton, the man who could not keep from talking for five minutes together if he had money riding on the outcome, had barely spoken in two hours. It was only "Here, this one is yours" and "Pass me that deposition, will you?"

The silence was just as bad as the chatter. "Hamilton, why aren't you talking?"

Alexander started. "I thought you didn't want me to talk."

"That," said Burr, "is reductio ad absurdium."

"You told me to be quiet."

"I didn't mean it literally. Talk  _less_ , I said -- not stop altogether. I'm getting nervous."

He expected a smile, a laugh. Something. Hamilton only dropped his head and looked at the papers again. "Sorry. Um. Do you think the order of your witnesses is quite right? If we use the girlfriend first, her testimony --"

"Why are you ignoring me?"

"-- Her testimony will show up more strongly, by contrast. The more dynamic witness, who is, um," he flipped pages, "the daughter, she can go near the end; they'll be tired by then but they'll hang on her every word. And her words will set him to hanging. It seems fitting."

"Absolutely poetic," said Burr. "Do what you like. And you could tell me, maybe, if you're going to be several hours late. I do have a phone." God, he sounded like a haraunging father -- or a jealous lover. Neither one was right. He just didn't want to not know, that was all.

Hamilton went very still. "Would you like that? I thought ... I thought ..."

"You're not going to send me ... little pictures of vegetables, are you? Or incomprehensible slang?"

"Does your Theo do that? I swear, I had Phil's phone out nearby the other day (don't give me that look, Aaron Burr, I was not snooping, I just happened to see it, that's all) -- and one of his friends texted this thing that was just a jumbled mix of letters. I couldn't even understand it enough to know the topic. It might have been about homework or street drugs or anything in between, for all I could tell."

"He's nine," said amused Burr. "It's probably not drugs."

"Well, how do I know? What does Theo talk about? How do you get her to talk to you? I feel like the older he gets, there more there's this distance between us. It makes me ... I mean." He scrubbed at his hair. "He really could be thinking and doing horrible things and I would have no clue. None. Anymore. We used to be close."

"We just -- talk. Jesus, do you overanalyze everything this much?"

"Me? You're blaming  _me_ for overanalyzing? When you've been sitting here two hours wanting to touch me and you haven't so much as brushed my hand because you're afraid that you'll come off as, I don't know, needy. Or human. Or something. It's ridiculous. You could do so much more if you would stop being scared of every little consequence."

"Some of those consequences aren't little, Hamilton."

"Oooh, you called me 'Hamilton'! Is that supposed to be scary? I've gotten much nicer from you --"

"Enjoy that memory. You won't get another." He was shaking, furious. Where were his things? Where had Hamilton moved them? Dammit -- damn him -- there -- tucked under a stack of other files and probably all out of order now, it was a damned miracle he had found them at all. Well, thank god Hamilton didn't work in an evidence locker. 

Burr turned to go. 

Alexander was blocking the door.

"Go away," said Burr.

"The reasonable thing to do -- the human thing to do -- when someone tells you they've been waiting hours for you to kiss them -- is to  _fucking well kiss them,_ Burr. You idiot."

"You did not tell me to kiss you."

"Now who's being overly analytical? Fine. Is that how you want it? Aaron Burr, will you please kiss me?"

Burr didn't move. "Hamilton --"

"Alex. My name is Alex."

"Hamilton. I don't want to kiss you."

Alexander looked at him steadily. "There are other things we could do, if you'd rather, but I didn't bring any supplies. I could go home first." He smiled. "You could come with."

"I don't want you," said Burr; his voice sounded harsh to his own ears. It caught in his throat. 

He expected Hamilton to flinch, or stumble, or stutter and blush; instead he stepped closer and spoke low. "Are you trying to lie to yourself or to me? I don't really mind if you lie to yourself. If that's what you want. Just don't lie to me."

Burr had no intentions of lying; he simply didn't know what he wanted to do. There were too many things. He wanted to run away and he wanted to run his hands through Hamilton's hair again and see if it was soft, as soft as it looked, as soft as memory claimed, and he wanted to go home and lock his bedroom door and explore this, silently, alone in the dark, pretending his own hands were Alexander's -- 

He had to stop this. Whatever it was. So he tried again to regain some self-control. "I don't want you. I just want ..."

  
_I actually like you,_  Hamilton said, in memory, tucking hair behind his ear, looking earnest and forthright, looking right into his face.  
Burr looked at that ear. He looked at the neck behind it, the shadow of beard growing in. He dragged his gaze back to his face but that was worse; he knew the warmth of that skin now, knew the way his mouth responded and changed and parted with desire; he knew how Alexander's breath hitched in this chest --

"You are so indecisive. Are you always this terrible at making choices? Chasing what you want? It isn't so difficult. Just --" Hamilton moved that half-step of separation between them; he leaned in a little closer; he smelled Burr's skin. His breath was hot. He moved upwards, not touching, inhaling that same spot on Burr along his jawline and on the hollow of his neck and --

Burr felt sick. He couldn't move, he couldn't move at all, or he might shatter. "You don't want this."

"Oh, I very much do, Aaron Burr," he said, and he was kissing now without pretense, running his mouth over the place where the heartbeat close to the surface, "Aaron meaning  _miraculous_ , and Burr meaning --"

"A rough edge. Yes. No. Alexander,  _please_ \--"

"Ah, my name again! I do like it. And I like it when you beg." He spoke in stacato bursts, each word punctuated by a movement; at "beg" he bit down gently. 

Burr said a single, very heartfelt curse and pushed him against the door, kissing him hard, hard, holding on with both hands -- and Hamilton, _goddamn Alexander Hamilton,_ was against his body and gasping aloud while Burr held his head back, held open the curve of his neck, held one hand tangled in his hair. 

It really was as soft as it looked.


	4. This became a pastime ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Laurens (she says, in parentheses). And Peggy. And a lot of sexual innuendo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny little chapter this time! The next few will be longer. I promise.
> 
> (The "exactly five minutes before start" is a silly tease re Leslie Odom Jr, who apparently rolls in to performance with just barely enough time to shower and dress. Seems like Lin Miranda gets a bit nervous about that ...)

 

This became a pastime.

They established tacit rules. Never during business hours, never outside of the building, never leave a mark. Easy enough.

... except when they were called to a meeting and Burr arrived late (that is, exactly five minutes before time) and the only seat available was next to Hamilton. He felt every eye on him as he walked over, put down his things, got out a notepad, not looking up, acting as casually as possible though he knew -- he  _knew_ \-- one pair of dark eyes still rested on him, considering.

Then Hamilton turned and gave Burr his back, apparently paying attention to the speaker. Probably he could do this because he was not in the position to see every single twitch and movement of Burr's body. Probably with a perspective like that, he could actually focus on the meeting.

It was a good act. Burr could almost believe Alexander was paying attention. Except that midway through he leaned back a little and reached to move his customary ponytail and tuck it over his shoulder, exposing a curve of skin.

Impossible to interpret that in any way except as a declaration of war.

But developing nations establish common boundaries -- only kisses, yes, only touches, _yes_ , fully clothed. Yes. Sometimes boundaries were moved to be later re-established, as during revolution or hostile actions, when one country enters another.

So after the meeting Burr followed Hamilton to his office (no pretense now) and found a smooth delicious expanse of skin just below the waistband of Alex's trousers. He broke several treaties and was well on his way to waging war on the entire country before Hamilton pushed him away, shivering all over. "No -- not here --"

Burr sat up. 

He hadn't meant to do that. He hadn't meant any of this. 

He shifted away from the flushed, dreamy-eyed man on the floor and sat up and tucked in his own shirt, again. Jesus, his hands were shaking and his mouth tasted like -- like something more had happened --

And now he was actually hallucinating the sound of voices.

No. People were really were talking outside. Too close. 

_Shit._

Alexander heard it, too. He sat up in a right panic and began re-dressing. His collar was open and his shirt was untucked and his trousers were open; he looked like a man on the edge of finding religion.

Burr made it halfway across the room and was actually reaching for the doorknob when Peggy Schulyer said, very close by and  _very loudly,_  "I really don't think he's in there --"

And then John Laurens came in the room, with Peggy on his heels. 

She made an apologetic face at Burr behind Laurens' back and said calmly, "Well, he's leaving anyway. Didn't you have a meeting today, Burr?"

"Yes, I -- I came just a moment ago --"

"Oh, I can see that well enough," Laurens said.

"It's not like that," said Hamilton, still quite flushed. He'd managed to stand on his feet now, though he looked terribly distracted and uncomfortable; his trousers were visibly tight. 

Burr was experiencing a similar issue; he felt that he  _should_ feel more sympathetic. Instead he was furious with Laurens for walking in and Peggy for not stopping it, furious with Hamilton and at himself. Loosen your shoulders, he thought. Relax. Don't tug at your clothes. Do not do not absolutely do not run.

Laurens was still standing there, apparently considering the satisfaction he'd gain from  _completely ruining Burr's life_ and weighing it against some unknown considerations; finally he chose to err on the side of dignity. He only said: "Alex -- don't bother."

And they were alone again.

"Fuck," said Burr.

"Fortunately," said Hamilton, "not quite."

"Is this really the time to be quick-witted?"

"I can't help it."

"Peggy doesn't care," said Burr, rubbing the back of his head; he was certain of that somehow. "But that damn Laurens -- if he goes and tells someone --"

Alexander shook his head. "He won't. John isn't that sort."

"Oh, you know him so well?"

"He's my friend. You know that." 

And Hamilton, who had never managed to hide his thoughts from his face, was turning away to try and do just that.

Burr was absolutely, positively, decidedly not feeling anything even slightly akin to possessiveness. "You were more than just friends, I think."

"It was a long time ago. Once. Ish."

Once,  _ish_? And what unit of measurement was  _a long time ago_? No -- no -- this was all too much, it was too risky, he was too helpless here -- what would he do if (when) they were found out -- he could lose his job, his house -- it was illegal but it happened -- and Theo. 

Burr couldn't risk her being hurt. 

He said: "We can't keep doing this." 

It wasn't the first time he'd said it, either to himself or aloud to Hamilton, who'd always just laughed like Burr was joking. This time he kept his head bent down, focusing on tucking in the tail of his shirt. He did not answer.

"Alexander? You heard me?"

"I heard you. I don't know what you want me to say about it."

"Tell me you won't fight me on this."

"I won't. I mean, I will. Dammit! Aaron, you're  _wrong_. Hiding in the closet isn't the way to have a relationship. You don't need to be afraid of Laurens, really you don't -- or Schuyler -- or anyone else finding out -- they're all fine -- they won't _do_ anything, what are you worried about, they aren't going to hurt you, nobody cares about this stuff anymore --"

" _I_ am not fine! Hamilton, this -- this thing -- whatever this is -- I don't  _want_ it. I don't want you. I've never, never looked at my life and thought 'oh this would be so much better if only I were fucking a loudmouth arrogant bastard on the side' --" 

He regretted it at once. 

Alexander didn't move. He didn't move at all. 

Damn him, anyway. He was a  _bastard_.

\-- A bastard who just now looked scraped out and raw and almost luminous with pain. He was a loudmouth -- yes, a broad soft perfect mouth, _yes,_ and it tasted like wild clover. Burr hadn't eaten clover since he was a boy, hadn't even thought of it in years -- and then the taste of Hamilton -- god, he was all sweat and sweetness, he brought back the vibrancy of summers off from school, time stretching endlessly forward, risk and reward so deftly packaged that they fit in the palm of his hand. (When had he stopped reaching out to take what he could grasp?)

Oh those damned dark eyes! He couldn't look at them. He was a liar. He knew it and that was awful and Alex knew it and that was worse but the worst thing was how badly he wanted to touch Alexander -- oh he wanted it and _wanted_ it, his fingers actually ached from wanting it; he needed to kiss away that terrible expression and bring back Alex's delighted, throaty laughter. He wanted to find the spot on his neck that made his knees go weak, to push him up against the wall and hear him moan aloud -- to press their bodies together, arching closer, skin on skin --

"Well," Hamilton said, deadly soft. "Don't let me chain what longs for freedom." 

He jerked open the door. It slammed against the wall. The filing cabinets rattled. 

"I'm guessing you can find your own way out."


	5. "Arrogant, Loudmouth ... "

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein occurs the satisfactory conclusion of mutual desire! Finally! (Naughty stuff is implied, not stated.)
> 
> Also: young Theo talks with her father about his love life, Alexander has a secret (or two, or three), and Burr could really use a cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Burr and his daughter were really, really open about his sex life when she was an adult but he seemed to keep things age-appropriate before then  
> \- My violin teacher once auditoned in pyjamas and fuzzy bunny slippers  
> \- I cannot think about mac & cheese without thinking about that dumbass Thomas Jefferson  
> \- "butter" in French is "beurre"  
> \- Burr once wrote to young Theo that he wanted to visit a friend and did not do it: "Why don't I go there oftener? Because I do nothing that I wish or intend." OH BURR I LOVE YOU

 

Again and again Burr dreamt of Theodosia. She was a long way from him and barely visible in the sunlight and he knew it was her. He knew her. He would recognize her across decades, across lives -- He started to walk towards her & arrived in the same instant he began. "T," he said, breathless with emotion, dropping down next to her. "I've missed you -- god, Theodosia,  _god_  --"

 She looked at him steadily. She wore a blue dress and no smile. Her eyes were large, dark, vibrant, just as in life; but now their very size and expression reminded him of other eyes.

In sleep, Burr shuddered. 

His dreaming-self reached out for his wife. Not here, not now, I don't care about him, I want you -- "I want you," he told her, wordlessly to the wordless. "I don't want -- he's a  _mess_. You are --" 

Intelligent, witty, graceful. Gone.

She still didn't move. Burr drew back. "Are you angry? I'm sorry. Please, I'm so sorry. Don't leave. Don't be angry. Please please just stay with me." He was crying now; he felt the tears on his face, felt them rolling down into the fabric of the pillow even as he felt the sunlight and the breeze and her fingers brush his skin. 

She held up her hand to look at him a moment through the trembling drop; and then she smiled.

That smile. He had waited to marry her -- waited for her husband to die -- spent years in secrets and patience just to own the owner of that smile. He'd waited long enough. And now he had to spend more time without her. 

But Alex was between them.

"I didn't mean to betray you," he said. How could he explain? "It isn't like that. You're dead," he told her as if she didn't know it, and she laughed at him and pressed her hand over his mouth, like he shouldn't speak secrets.

He took her hand and held it. "Tell me you don't mind. And tell me -- oh T, I fucked up. Of course I did, I always do, you know that already. But I don't know what to do about it. Tell me what I need to do."

She bent in close, close, enough that he could count her lashes and see the tiny pox-scar beneath one eye and almost feel her breath on his skin, almost feel her mouth, as she kissed him, as he clutched at her, as he woke.

 

 

Theodosia was right. 

Nevertheless he managed to ignore the situation for days, or rather, he pretended to ignore it. It was a beautiful weekend, mild and clear; Theo's eleventh birthday. They went to a park and walked around; they went home and spoke in French about schoolwork, spoke in German about the new piano lessons, and spoke in English about politics: about the possibility of a female president, about institutional bias towards minorities influencing hiring decisions and the possible effect of a single interview on multiple generations of a family. Theo thought she might be interested in dismantling this as a grown-up. "We could make a rule that you have to hire people unseen. Interview them behind a curtain, like they do with musicians."

"We'll have to give them slippers at the door," he said, "so there isn't any difference in the noise of their shoes. But what would you do about the use of cultural vernaculars?"

"Type all the answers?"

"Mmm, still not right," said Burr. "It wouldn't eliminate much bias. And you know the poorer and-or less educated a person is, the less likely to be comfortable with computers. Add in the elderly, who are historically passed over, people with physical and mental disabilities who might not be able to communicate easily that way --"

"This is very complex.  _And_  it's Saturday night."

"Yes. You know the days of the week. Very good."

"Mr Hamilton and Philip are usually here by now."

Burr considered this. "I don't think they're coming tonight." Or ever again. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"What did you do?"

He laughed. "Why do you think it's me?"

"Because otherwise you would have already told me what's going on."

Burr leaned against the counter and regarded his daughter. "You are clever. But don't bring it up with Philip, will you?"

"Not if you say so. But what happened? Will they come over again? I liked having supper with them. It was nice. They're nice."

"I am nice," he grumbled.

Theo rested her forehead on his shoulder; she put her arms around him. "You're better than nice."

"Don't you know any other words?"

"You are lovely, charming, verbose, reserved, persnickety, troublesome, voracious --" she kissed him on the cheek. "And you are scratchy. You need a shave."

"It's been a long week."

"You are also  _difficult_. And you do it on purpose. But Mr Hamilton really is nice -- I mean, he's considerate and knowledgeable and humane. And I think he likes you. You should make it up. Are you ever going to apologize to him? Why won't you tell me what happened? Was it about sex?"

He choked. "No. No! Why would you think ..."

"Most adult things are about sex."

"Um. Well. You're right about that. But you're wrong about this." (Sort of.) "He wanted me to do something that I'm not comfortable with, that's all."

"So you're not doing that with him."

"We are not. We have not." (Barely. Thanks to Alex pushing him away. How did it happen that  _Hamilton_ was the clear-headed one?)

Theo was stubborn. An inheritable trait. "You _want_ to, though."

"You're getting so tall, Theo. When did that happen?"

"You need to call him and apologize."

"Go away," he told her. "Don't you have anything to do in your room? Something more profitable and interesting than harassing your poor father?" 

She thought that was very funny. Burr frowned at her. "Why do you take such an interest in this?"

"I love you," said Theo, looking and sounding like her mother. "I want you to be happy."

"And you think," said Burr, cautiously laconic, "that Alexander Hamilton would make me happy."

"I think you should let him try." She kissed him again. "Does he mind when you're all scratchy?"

He froze. "Theodosia --"

She went upstairs, laughing.

 

 

Of course Burr couldn't just call on the phone. He hated telephone conversations. He also hated text messages, email, the physical act of writing, and carrier pigeons. His options were limited.

So he waited until the end of the week, managing to avoid Hamilton almost entirely except for one brief horrible moment in a stairwell; and then he waited some more, until the end of the day. He'd been unable to concentrate at all for the majority of it. As people left he kept track of them like a card-counter in poker, waiting for the opportune moment.

At five-seventeen exactly, he judged waiting to be worse than the suffering if he was caught at Hamilton's door (evaluating the likelihood of who would see him there, and what they were likely to think, and how humilated he would be). 

Time to go.

He knocked once and pushed it open.

He should have waited longer.

Hamilton was sitting in his chair -- and John Laurens was on the arm, leaning in close, speaking in a voice too low to understand anything more than the sound of trust and fervidity.

Burr thought of several different sentences and found them all unsatisfactory in either content or form, so he only counted to three and said: "Am I interrupting?"

Alexander turned red and stood up, looking guilty. Laurens, still seated, was looking hard into his face, like he was trying to communicate telepathically -- well, John Laurens _would_ think he had special powers.

Neither of them spoke aloud.

Finally -- finally -- Laurens tossed his head. Probably he had developed that habit when he had long hair; it wasn't nearly as effective with a fade. "Fine. I'll leave." And "Burr" in a feignt of civil acknowledgement.

Burr watched the retreating back until it turned the corner; then he shut the door and turned to Alexander.

"I don't want to talk with you right now," said Hamilton. He had a hard set to his mouth and his posture was very straight.

"-- What?"

"I'm asking you to leave. I'm trying to be polite about it."

Burr realized he hadn't let go of the door handle. Now he sat down on the other chair. A client's chair. It wasn't comfortable. It was made to help you get to the point and get out. So. He would get to the point. "I'm here to apologize."

Alexander sat down slowly in his own; it was far more comfortable and sturdy than Burr's. "That's a real nice declaration. But I don't believe you."

Burr laughed, shaky. "I've only apologized a dozen times in my life, and now you're telling me you don't believe me?"

"Maybe I do believe you. It doesnt matter. I don't care."

Burr stopped laughing. His pride was caught in his throat; he swallowed it down. "Alexander --"

"You said some shitty things, Aaron Burr. You can't just come back from that. You can't just barge in here, be rude to Laurens --"

"Dammit, I was not rude --"

"-- because you think that he and I are together and you're jealous, and you won't admit it! I think you'd deserve it if I were sleeping with Laurens, if I were with him and kept on being -- whatever lovely thing did you call me at our last little meeting -- if I was still your  _arrogant loudmouth piece on the side_  --"

"Alex, I didn't mean --"

"You don't want me for yourself and you don't want me being with anyone else. Do you know what that is? That's -- that's ridiculous. That's petty and stupid."

Burr winced. "I'm not stupid."

"If the shoe fits. And -- god, why would you think I want to be with him? Haven't I showed you enough that I am into you?" He laughed a little. "It's so painfully obvious, even you should have noticed it. People have been making fun of me for years."

Years? 

No. It wasn't possible. 

"He wants you," said Burr, stupidly.

"That doesn't mean I want him."

Burr was clenching his hands together so tightly the knuckles were white; he looked down at them and said, "I've seen how you look at him."

"Oh?" said Alex, deadly soft. "Really? Does it  _bother_  you, how I look at Laurens? Because if it bothers you, Burr -- if you want some _thing_ and it's yours to take and you don't take it, you have no one to blame but yourself."

Burr couldn't look up, he couldn't meet those eyes.

"So what do you want, Burr? You've made it perfectly clear that you don't want me, you don't want -- whatever it is you think we have going on; you don't want any of it. So why should I be patient with you anymore? If I'm lonely and Laurens wants me and he doesn't care that I'm --" He stumbled over the words. "If he doesn't care I'm into you and not into him, if he is willing to spend the night with me and you are not -- tell me why I should care what you think. And make sure you use small words, so I'll understand. You know that I'm only a loudmouth bastard fuckboy." Alex spoke all this monologue to the floor; now he looked up, right at Burr. "And apparently I'm not even good enough to fuck."

Burr put his hands over his eyes and swore very, very quietly, a string of words and languages that didn't make any sense together but made him feel slightly, slightly less terrible. Alexander didn't move. He looked tired. He looked exhausted, actually. His mouth was soft and grieving; his eyes were dark, their luminosity dimmed; his hands were empty and open. "I want you," said Burr, speaking to the same patch of floor Alex had spoken to.

"I'm sorry," said Hamilton. "What did you say?"

"I want you."

Alexander shook his head. "I didn't quite catch that."

" _Ich will Dich. Je te veux._ I -- I don't remember the Latin just now. Alex --"

" _Ego te._ "

Burr repeated it. "Come home with me."

Hamilton laughed. "You don't mean that."

"We can -- I don't know. I don't want to think." He put a hand on his stomach. "I feel sick."

"Oh, marvelous. I make you ill?"

"Fighting with you is making me feel sick. Please just come home with me. Please. We don't need to -- do anything. Just please stop looking at me like that."

Hamilton was on his feet, right close to Burr, looking down at him. He probably enjoyed having the height advantage for once. He bent over and put his hands on either arm of the chair. "What did you say?"

"I -- I have no idea. What did you hear me say?"

"You said it bothers you to see me upset."

"Well --"

"And that you don't want me to look at Laurens like -- like how I look at you."

Burr winced. "No. That is, yes. I don't want that."

Hamilton straightened. "Good."

"Will you come home with me?" said Burr.

"No."

"Please."

"No, Burr."

"Alex," said Burr; he stood up. His chest felt tight. He hadn't been breathing properly. "I want you to please come home with me tonight. Please. And stay. I want you to stay."

They were very close now. Hamilton still hadn't moved. So Burr leaned forward and kissed him -- just once -- and drew back. "Did you sleep with Laurens last night?"

"Would it bother you if I did?"

"You are a massive pain in the ass," said Burr, and kissed him again, more enthusiastically this time. His chest was starting to relax. "Go call a sitter for Phil."

 

 

Theo was at the table and scribbling in a notebook when they came in. She blinked twice and then smiled: "Hello. Did my father apologize?"

"Theo," said Burr, warningly.

"Nevermind," she said, and hopped off the chair. "I'll be upstairs. In my room. With the door shut. Playing music on headphones."

"Theodosia, if you say one more word I will --" 

She waited. Burr cast about for a proper threat. "I will make you sign up for after-school softball."

"Then you'd have to come to my games," she said.

"The-o-do-si --"

"Fine. Yes. Okay. Goodnight." She stopped on the steps. "Goodnight, Mr Hamilton."

Burr had collapsed on the couch, but Hamilton was laughing. "Is she always so --"

"Yes," said Burr, tense. "Come on."

 

 

Burr had thought -- he didn't know what he'd expected. His expectations didn't matter, anyway. Because Alexander was being -- careful. He returned kisses without fire; when Burr tried to open the buttons of his shirt, he gently moved away. 

Nothing was the matter, he said; he just wanted to go slow.

Burr was rather annoyed. "That's a first."

Hamilton flinched. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply ..."

"That by sleeping with me, you'd be sleeping with me? -- It's fine. Alex, stop that, it's fine."

Strangely, it was. They shared a bottle of wine and then another, and talked -- well, mostly Hamilton talked -- until the moon fell down in the sky and Burr was nearly asleep on his feet. 

He felt hands pulling at him. "Come on, come this way, one more step -- hold still --" 

And then he was being undressed by a pair of trembling hands that stopped too soon, and Hamilton joined him under the covers, kissing him now along his jaw and neck and on the mouth, saying something that ended with "Aaron Burr, are you even listening?" just as he fell asleep.

 

 

Sunlight woke him -- and the smell of something burning. 

And there was someone in the bed.

For one sleep-riddled instant he thought it was his wife and his heart turned over; then he remembered Hamilton, remembered the argument, remembered something of the night before, and his heart twisted again with painful uncertainty. But Alexander was snuggled down beneath the covers, deeply asleep. He didn't have to deal with that yet. Thank god.

He tugged on clothes and padded downstairs. 

As expected: the smell was caused by young Theo. Her hair was tied back (good girl) and she had pushed up her sleeves to the elbow and, but good lord, she had made a mess. Maybe he should have threatened her with cooking classes instead of softball. "What are you trying to do there?"

"It is past time to be awake and have breakfast, therefore I am making pancakes for you. And for Mr Hamilton."

"Why do you think he's still here? I mean," he shook his head at himself. "-- Why do you think he likes pancakes?"

"I do," said the man in question; he'd dressed in his actual clothing, which was more than Burr had managed, though he still seemed riddled with sleep. He yawned. "The key is to not overstir the batter. And the first one is always ugly but delicious; that's for the cook."

Theo made a face. "My batter is quite smooth, therefore overstirred. I need more practice. Or a better tutor. My father can't cook at all, it's one of the few things he does poorly; I need to improve so we don't starve. Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," said Burr, at the same moment that Hamilton said "Quite well."

They looked at each other.

"I can teach you, Theo," said Hamilton.

"I can cook perfectly well," snapped Burr.

"You burned macaroni and cheese," said Theo, flipping a pancake.

"That was because you told me to come in and beat out your measures while you practiced."

"Yes, and a good cook would have remembered to turn off the heat. Here. Done." She used a liberal amount of maple syrup on her own breakfast; Burr added only butter and a wink for his daughter over the pun; Hamilton used butter, syrup, and ate from the outside in, concentric circles, like a bull's-eye.

He rose. "Young Theodosia, it is a true pleasure to break fast with you, and the pancakes were a delight. Burr, I --"

"Excuse me," said Theo, and fled, carrying sticky plates.

"You can leave," said Burr, "if you want."

"It was good to see you."

"You don't need to make polite noises. You are allowed to go."

"I would very much like to see you again."

"Well," said Burr, shifting on his feet. "We'll see how it goes."

Alexander hooked an arm around his neck and kissed him right there in the dining room. He tasted like coffee and sugar. "I need you to tell me you want me here again, sometime."

"Um --"

"He means yes," said Theo, spying from the stairwell.

 

 

Another weekend gone, and another uneventful night. Philip was staying with his mother for the weekend.  ("Why did you two divorce?" said Burr, who was as ever battling the conflicting urges of curiosity and reticence.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Alex. Something in his face -- in how he turned away -- called Laurens to mind. Burr didn't press for more information.)

They went out for breakfast, leaving Theo with stern words of caution and her father's phone. Burr paid, and ignored Hamilton's protests about this so completely that he also missed several minutes of the other man's post-complaint conversation. 

Afterwards they sat in the car and kissed until the windows steamed up -- and separated, breathing heavily. 

This was damned uncomfortable.

Hamilton ran his hands through his hair, looking flushed and sleepy. "Aaron, you are --"

"Burr."

"You are distracting, Mr Burr, sir. You are extremely distracting. And I want -- I want to --" He laughed a little. "I want that very much. But we need to talk first."

"Do you mind if I smoke while we're having this conversation? It's sure to be dreadful."

"I absolutely do mind, yes, thank you for asking. The smell of your tobacco will never come out of my hair." He ran hands through aforesaid hair again, looking tense. "It's about John Laurens. I thought it would be easier for you if you knew -- all of it. From the beginning. To now."

"No," said Burr, sour. "I don't think that is in any way a necessary prelude to the event. Hamilton, is there some reason you're hesitating about this? For god's sake, a month ago we very nearly -- and that was in your office." Now Burr was the irritable one.

"Is that really what you want?" said Hamilton. He actually looked uncertain; he actually looked nervous.

Burr had no patience anymore. "Yes. Now. Let's go."

 

 

"Go play outside," Burr told his beloved daughter.

"But --"

"Two hours, ten dollars an hour, and you only come back in if the bleeding won't stop or if something is on fire. Understand?" 

She understood. She probably understood a little bit more than he intended; but he reminded himself that knowledge was never a waste. 

And Hamilton was waiting.

 

 

Alexander was cross-legged on the bed, picking at the pattern on the quilt, waiting. He looked up. "Aaron."

Burr took off his watch; he pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his shoes.

"Fuck.  _Aaron_ \--"

Burr crawled on to the bed and kissed Hamilton on the mouth and put his hands under his shirt and had it over his head and had him pressed down into the pillows, all in a moment, a single smooth movement.

Alex made an inarticulate noise, he seemed almost dazed, and Burr found himself equally unable to think; he was kissing that lovely face again and again, mumbling about nothing, feeling nothing but a curious sense of -- was it gratitude? Hands were everywhere, pants were unbuckled and tossed to the floor in a tangled heap, mouth and skin and sweat joined together. An enterprising Burr found a spot just under the last rib that, when licked, made Alex shiver all over and make the most interesting sound; he spent some time there watching the effect. It was glorious. It was beautiful. "God," he said into his lover's skin, moving lower. " _God_. Why did we wait so long for this?"

"Because you never do anything you want."

Burr bit down, hard. "Stop talking like you know me -- stop  _talking_ , I said -- I know something better you can do with that mouth --"

And for once -- finally -- he found Hamilton to precisely meet his expectations.

 

 

"Aaron," mumbled Hamilton sometime later, sounding very sleepy indeed. "I'mma tell you."

"What?"

"John Laurens."

"Jesus, Alex. This is not the time to talk about other men." But Burr raised up on one elbow to search that face.

Alex was talking in his sleep; had to be. He was breathing slow and even; his fingers, outside the covers, twitched slightly. He was asleep and he was beautiful and he was here. 

He mumbled something.

"What?"

More mumbles.

Burr brushed hair out of his face, skin lingering against skin.  _Finally._  "Okay. Thank you. Go to sleep."

Sleeping Alex's mouth curved. Burr kissed that, too.

 

 

Hamilton was still asleep. Burr put on clothes and went downstairs. 

Theo was curled up on the couch, reading. 

He stopped in front of her, embarrassed at having forgotten the time limit. "Did you want supper? We can order in."

"Absolutely," she said, without looking up.

He tried again. "How is Jane Eyre?"

"Her French is  _tres mal_."

"I don't think Charlotte Bronte herself was very experienced in the language, at that point. Theo, I owe you twenty dollars."

"Thirty," she said; but at last she smiled.

He sat down next to her. "Are you all right?"

"Are you? It sounds painful."

He and Theodosia had always been careful to keep quiet, but Alex had no such ability. Burr made a mental note to sound-proof the entire house. "It is, in a way. A good painful. Like scratching an itch. I'm sorry, Theo. I didn't mean for you to hear that."

"I came back early," she said, looking down at her book.

Burr counted in German. "That was rude."

"I know."

He touched her arm. "Are you all right, though? I don't want to ... upset you. With anything. Especially not this."

She moved closer to him. "Would you stop seeing him if I asked?"

"Yes," he said. It wasn't even a question.

"I wasn't being tricky. I don't want you to stop seeing him. But does he make you happy?"

Burr kissed the top of her head, that spot that smelled so sweetly of milk and warmth when she was a baby, that place where the hair curled in a wilful spiral that never quite lay flat. "You make me happy," he said.

 

 

That was the first week of summer, defined not by weather or astronomical shifts but by that most right and proper system: the school vacation schedule. Philip stayed with his mother for the entire season, and Hamilton claimed to miss his son so ferociously that nothing would do for it but to stay with the Burrs and attend breakfast with young Theo. Spending the nights in a large, comfortable bed, tucked close in to Burr, was apparently only an addition to the delight of her company. Burr felt a twinge of disbelief at this -- Theo was decidedly irritable before ten am -- but did not argue.

They worked out a pair of compromises _vis a vis_ the noise situation -- one between themselves, privately, and one with Theo. If she had questions (or complaints) she could expect them to be addressed promptly and openly; in return they would be very, very respectful of her presence. 

This was not as straightforward, perhaps, as Burr pretended to his daughter (or himself); Hamilton really could not keep his mouth shut. Burr thought he might need to invest in a ball gag. Still, keeping to a reasonable decibel was an interesting challenge; they fell asleep pleasantly worn out.

 

 

 


	6. "Virtue is not the word I'd apply to this situation ..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Alexander is somewhat reticent, Burr is somewhat open, and John Laurens is heartbreakingly forthright. Kissing, coitus, an argument in an elevator! Lots of bad words! Burr smokes many many cigarettes! 
> 
> Nothing graphic here but dirty dirty filth is heavily implied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "You have plants?" cracks me the fuck up, because i am a total nerb  
> \- Burr doesn't consider ANYBODY a friend EVER because he is also a nerb  
> \- Theo plays this arcade game where you turn into a monster and knock down buildings, it is one of my wife's favorite games (speak of nerbs)  
> \- i now have a wicked crush on John Laurens  
> \- also i sort of ship Burr/Laurens now??  
> ONE MORE CHAPTER.

 

 

"I have to go home sometime," Alexander told Burr, late one night; neither was especially awake. "I need to water my plants."

"You have plants?"

"I do, Aaron Burr, though you're too unobservant to notice. You even knocked one over when you showed up drunk on my doorstep." He was smiling, remembering what came afterwards.

Remembering the prelude, Burr winced. And: "Speaking of -- of that night. I wanted to take Theo somewhere -- vacation, maybe -- for the anniversary of her mother's ... of the funeral. Maybe that will help things. I don't know. I don't know what to do. I feel like I've barely seen her these last weeks."

Hamilton curled around him, skin on skin, as if he'd gone away already, as if he'd been away too long. "Yes. Take a break. Brilliant idea. You ought to go. Take a week. Take two weeks. She can afford to miss the time at school." He stopped. "Are you asking my permission?"

"No," said Burr.

"I'll miss you," said Hamilton.

Burr shifted a little and bent to kiss him, lingering. "Thank you."

 

 

Work was not quite so pleasant as home. After the first day back, when a shared lunch meant one of them was late for a meeting and the other one went home to shower, they agreed to avoid each other: easier said than done. There were always mutual client files, questions, a glimpse of a ponytail rounding a corner, terribly distracting.

And one day they were on the elevator, riding down, talking easy, and the doors opened to Laurens. 

He saw Hamilton and stepped forward and smiled. 

He saw Burr and the smile fell away.

The automatic doors tried to shut. 

Laurens reached out and pressed them open again.

Burr said: "You're holding it up." 

"Fine," said Laurens, and came inside. "Asshole." 

"Now we'll be late," said Burr, who did not need to be anywhere in particular and was only riding the elevator because Alex was riding the elevator.

Alexander shut his eyes and looked pained. "I wish you two would get along. Draft a statement of neutrality. Something."

"He started it." That was Laurens, glaring at Burr. "That stunt in your office --"

"Enough," said Burr. "Hamilton is right --"

"And you're trying to match him in self-righteousness? Virtue is not a word I'd apply to your situation --"

"Oh, fuck you," said Burr, and was angry all over again that he had been reduced to this banality.

Laurens shook his head. "Oh, no need for that. Alex already did."

Hamilton winced. He reached out to touch Laurens' sleeve. "John -- please --"

Burr spoke through his teeth, ignoring this. "That was a long time ago. Typical of you to bring up old news, though."

"A long time ago? Is that what he said?"

The elevator door opened. Someone wanted to get on.

"Go away," snapped Burr, and hit the "close" button. "Alexander, what is he talking about?"

"My god," said Laurens. The anger fell away from his stance and he stared at Alex. "You  _didn't_  tell him."

Hamilton was uncharacteristically mute. He gripped the railing around the perimeter of the little room as if he thought he'd fall over.

Burr turned to Laurens. "When was this?"

"You mean, most recently?"

They stared at each other.

Hamilton said again, as if he'd forgotten all the other words in the world: "John,  _please_."

"Laurens, you tell me."

"Aaron --"

"Hamilton, shut up or so help me, I will shoot you. Laurens, if you thought I knew already you can go ahead and tell me now."

John Laurens took his time in answering. He watched Hamilton's face. 

The door opened again and again Burr closed it, with a curse.

Finally, quietly, Laurens said: "Three weeks ago." He looked tired. "You saw us talking the next day in his office. You interrupted."

Ah. That day.

Hamilton shut his eyes again.

Laurens looked at Burr. "I'm sorry."

Burr didn't bother to answer.

Hamilton said, to Laurens: "I can't believe you would do this to me."

Seeing Alex angry somehow made this even worse. Burr said "Don't you dare blame him," and both men turned in surprise. "This is  _your_  fault; this is  _your_  decision. You told me --" What had Alex said? What exact words?  _If I were fucking Laurens, it would serve you right_ , he'd said. And  _Does it matter if I am?_  

He felt sick. "You told me exactly what you wanted me to hear."

"Aaron --"

"No."

The doors slid open again and this time Burr let them. He pushed past the crowd of people there, past the sight of Laurens reaching for Alexander, past the rows of doors until he was out in the day again, in the innocuous and strange, the fragile world. 

 

 

He sat on a bench far away from any sheltering trees -- a good spot, high and dry. If only he'd thought to bring his cigarettes along. Certainly he could smoke as much as he liked now without worrying if the taste on his  mouth would bother ... someone.

"Um?"

The sunlight was bright. Too bright. He couldn't see anything but a man's form, hands in pockets, looking shy. Not Hamilton, then. Good. He couldn't take another conversation like that last one. But he couldn't tell who it was, either. He shaded his eyes. That must have been as good as a gilded invitation because the man sat down next to him on the bench -- too close. 

Burr shifted away lest their clothing should touch.

Laurens said: "Just hear me out."

"I can't help hearing you."

"I'm not here to hurt you."

Burr started to laugh. "I doubt you're going to try and get us back together."

"No." Laurens rubbed his chin. "No. I don't want that. Look. I honestly didn't know Alex hadn't told you."

"To his credit," said Burr, very dry, "he did try to tell me. I wouldn't let him."

"Why the hell not?"

"Laurens, you know how he goes on. It's  _constant_. Half of the time I ignore it. The other half of the time it's about -- well, you."

Laurens made a face. "I appreciate the attempt to cheer me up."

"He values your friendship," and Burr shrugged, "god knows why, but it's true. He thinks you're  _funny_ and  _charming_ and  _handsome_  and  _clever_  and  _kind_  --" he ticked these traits off on his fingers as he spoke -- "and the first time we were in bed together --"

"Aaron Burr, I do not need to hear this story."

"He was still talking about you."

They stared at each other.

"So," said Burr. "I didn't know, but I should have known. If it didn't happen then, it would have happened later. Better sooner, I suppose."

Laurens looked into the middle distance. "He might think I'm handsome and funny and charming --"

"And he said you are very kind," said Burr. "He said that repeatedly. No one has ever said that about me even once."

"It doesn't matter. He doesn't care about me. He doesn't want to be with me. Burr, he is painfully ... interested in you."

"Indeed, yes, of course, I can see that. Despite the fact that I am neither kind nor handsome, and -- oh yes -- he slept with you." Repeatedly. And recently. He felt sick again.

"You are a pile of shit," said Laurens, but he was smiling a little; then he dropped the expression. "I know you don't want to hear this and I don't want to tell you, but the entire last night we were together, the entire time -- no matter what I did to him --"

He was right; Burr didn't want to hear it. He stood and started walking away fast, to get away from the sound of that voice. 

\-- Not fast enough. Laurens kept pace. "He cried. Alex cried. I was so happy that I -- I couldn't see straight, I thought he was finally coming back, and all night he cried in my arms. No matter what I tried to do to him to make him happy, to make him forget, it didn't make any difference at all because he is in love with you."

Burr stopped walking. He didn't turn.

"I am in love with him," said Laurens, a little more calmly. "And he loves you. There's no justice in the world. So go on and hate me. That's fine. I have more hatred for you in the nail on my little finger than you can manage to feel in that entire desiccated organ you call a heart. But I'm not so much of a villain as to let that sort of bombshell fall on anyone -- even on you. Especially on you." He made a face. "It hurts Alex to see you upset. So. Anyway. All this to say, I would never have told you, Burr. Never. It just wasn't your goddamn business to know. But Alex," and he shivered at the name, and wrapped his arms around himself, he looked suddenly fragile: "Alex told me you already knew."

Burr contemplated all this outburst. "And you believed him."

"He said you didn't mind."

"And you believed him?"

"I -- yes. I thought you just wanted --" He dropped off.

"You thought I was using him for sex and didn't care about the effect on him, or you. Well. You weren't lying. You do hate me."

"At this particular moment," said Laurens, "I hate Alex even more."

"Another thing we have in common," said Burr. "What a beautiful thing is friendship."

And John Laurens laughed. He stopped at once, but it had happened.

Burr felt very, very old. "He's right. You are kind. Far more than I am, with my tiny dried-up shriveled ... heart. You should," he stuttered, "You should go get him. If you want him. If you love him."

"I will always love him," said Laurens, fierce, but he shook his head: "No. I'm telling you -- I'm promising you that I won't. Anymore. Not again."

"Even if he showed up on your doorstep, drunk, and begged you?" Or collapsed against your shoulder, weeping ... 

"No. I would not. I will not. And not from any noble self-sacrificing streak, either; I'm not ... not like that. It just hurts me. And it hurts him. I don't want him hurt."

Burr didn't answer this.

"Are you going to take him back?" said Laurens.

Burr didn't answer that either.

"Good," said Laurens. "Keep to that." And he left, moving fast, loping down the hill.

 

 

Burr went home, chain-smoking all the way. 

Then he stomped upstairs and stomped into his bedroom and stripped down the bed, moving fast enough, violently enough, angry enough at Hamilton and Laurens and himself to work up a sweat, tossing the sheets into a pile on the floor and also kicking them once or twice for good measure. 

And then he stopped and pressed a hand to his heart and tried to breathe.

He was standing like that, fully clothed and furious in a tumble of linens, staring at the bare tufted top of the mattress, when his daughter tapped on the wall.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"It doesn't matter."

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter, Theo."

"Is it something about -- "

Burr rubbed his face. "I really, really do not want to talk about this."

She stared at him. "Okay. I'll go."

"No, I didn't mean it like that. Um. Are you doing anything much today? We can go out. Do something. Your choice. I feel like I've been ignoring you, and I don't want to ignore you."

"That would be nice. You have been ignoring me. It's okay, though. And also," she said, carefully, "also, I think that I'm never going to date anyone."

"That is a wise decision from one so young, O my daughter and O the light of my eyes."

"It did work out for Jane and Rochester, though," she said, and went downstairs.

That was hardly a comfort, Burr thought. He tucked up the sheets in his arms and went to start the wash.

 

 

Theo chose a terrible movie and the video arcade. She took four crisp ten-dollar bills (Burr had added another for her ongoing patience) and converted them all into a clattering pile of quarters. "That's a goddamned waste of good money," Burr told her in a severe voice, but he stood nearby and watched her shoot aliens and knock down buildings on rampage anyway, amused at this excess. She liked retro games the best ("they're so symmetrical") but insisted on trying every single blessed machine while he watched, and waited, and laughed at her.

Lunch. 

Home. 

Burr made the bed with hospital corners neat enough to pass an Army bed check and crawled right on top again. He lay face-down, breathing in deeply. 

He could only smell detergent. Nothing else. 

Thank god.

 

 

"-- so Jane runs away. And she almost dies on the moors. And she meets this family, and they turn out to be her cousins --"

Burr yawned. "Doesn't that coincidence strike you as a bit much?"

"Not at all. It's not coincidence, it's fate. So she lives with them, and she becomes a teacher again, and she enjoys it, better this time because no one is telling her what to do. And her cousin, Saint John, proposes marriage to her --"

"I don't think you're saying that right, my darling child. How is that spelled?"

"Marriage? I can absolutely pronounce marriage."

"Saint John."

She spelled it.

"Ah," he said. "That's pronounced Sinjin."

"That's a stupid pronunciation."

"I could not agree with you more. Go on."

"I would be finished already if you hadn't interrupted me so often, my darling father. Jane turns down Sinjin, because of course she does, and as she is telling him what a vile, reprehensible person he is, with his heart the size and shape of a walnut -- she doesn't actually say that but she ought to say it -- as she's saying that, she hears Rochester calling her."

"On the telephone?"

Theo hit him. "She hears his voice coming over the hills.  _Jane, Jane!_ "

"Now, that really is too much of a coincidence."

"It is not," said Theo. "It's true love and fate, and between those two things, miracles happen."

Miracles, thought Burr. She was a miracle. The result of a unsteady affair between love and fate. He lay a while longer listening to her ramble on, one arm around her small body, her ear pressed against his chest over the stuttering beat of that desiccated organ he called a heart.

 

 

Ignoring Alexander was substantially more difficult now that he really wanted to ignore him. Every single time Burr put his head out of his office door, the man was there, talking with someone or just walking by, arms full of paperwork. He'd started wearing his hair loose, Burr noticed; presumably he thought it easier to hide his face this way. It didn't work. Over and over their eyes met and Alex flushed red. But they still didn't speak.

After a week of this Peggy cornered Burr in the lunchroom. He was disconsolately trying to convince the vending machine to accept a wrinkled bill and, distracted by the effort, he didn't think to escape before she could speak.

"You have got to do something about Hamilton."

The exit was too far away to make it out before she could bodily tackle him. He sighed. "Can you lead with something more ... polite? Good afternoon, Burr. How are you, Burr. I would be happy to help you get that drink, Burr."

"Good afternoon, Burr. Your boyfriend is constantly moody and moping, and it's driving me crazy, and you need to do something about it because at this point I consider it justifiable cause to push him out the window."

Burr gave the vending machine a kick. "He's not my boyfriend."

She rolled her eyes. "What term do you prefer?"

"Coworker. Co-counsel. Barely an acquaintance."

"What did you do?"

"Goddammit, why does everyone assume I'm the one at fault here? Don't you need more evidence before making a judgment?"

"You're right," she said, staring at him. "That was unjust. What happened?"

"I'm not talking about it."

"Hard to get a considered opinion when you shut up like a clam, Burr. Here. Take my dollar."

He tried to exchange his own, wrinkled bill for hers; she refused. "Consider it payment in kind for having that conversation with him. Unless you want me to defenestrate him?"

"I haven't made up my mind," he said, perfectly sincere.

 

 

The verbal contract might well be binding but as they had not set a timeframe, Burr did not consider himself to be under any great rush. He texted Theo where he would be ( _out drinking. home eventually. do your chores. I love you_ ), did not reply to her reprehensibly-spelled reply ( _ok 2 all. u there alone?_ ), and walked to the bar. He'd take the bus home. Except no, they were running on reduced hours. Whatever. It didn't matter. He'd figure something out. It would be fine.

Six beers later, someone sat next to him and ordered a double.

"My shadow," said Burr.

"We just have similar taste," said Laurens.

"That's not funny."

"It was meant to be sardonic."

Burr called for another. "Isn't there any other stool you could find?"

"It's crowded, which you would know if you bothered to raise your head up off the bar," said the annoyed young man. "We don't need to talk, you know. I'll just sit here and drink quietly."

"Excellent idea."

They drank in silence.

"I haven't spoken to him," said Burr.

"I know."

They drank again.

They stared at each other.

"He hasn't spoken to me, either," said Laurens. His voice caught on the words.

"I'm sorry," said Burr. "He shouldn't --  _I_  don't blame you."

There was a bitter twist to Laurens' mouth. "Generous of you."

"No," said Burr. "It's not." He drank, more slowly this time. "I try to keep blame with the responsible party."

Laurens laughed, shakily. "There were two of us there, Burr."

"Only one of you lied to me. Evaded the truth."

"That wouldn't hold up under legal scrutiny."

"A relationship is not a trial." Except this one certainly was. Burr rubbed the spot on the bridge of his nose that ached when it rained; it was aching now, actually throbbing. "Verbal trickery is bad enough when it's only justice at risk; when -- never mind."

He drank.

"Yes, well," said Laurens, looking down at the ice in his glass and tilting it around and around as if wishing it had company, "Alex always thinks he can talk his way out of any situation. Or in."

"Laurens, do you -- have you ever thought of -- dating someone else?" Before the other man could give him more than a started glance, he remembered to clarify: "I am definitely not asking you out. Consider it an academic question. For the pure delight of relieving curiosity." And winced on hearing himself. Peggy was right; he did sound like a pomous ass.

"I do date other people. No matter how it might seem, I don't just sit around at home, looking at pictures of Alexander Hamilton and sighing dreamily. It's just ..." He shrugged. "Most people are boring, and I hate being bored. Alex -- well. Alex is a lot of things but he isn't  _boring_."

Wasn't that the truth. Burr finished his drink and set down the glass, carefully. The paper coaster had a dual functionality: it served to wick consdensation away from the bar top and, by the increased friction in a moist surface, added a steadying effect to hands that might not be so very steady.

He'd definitely had too much.

"Laurens, will -- can you you take me home? I don't think I can drive. And you've only had the one. Two. It isn't terribly far."

For a minute he thought -- but the expression (whatever it was) died out of Laurens' eyes. "Sure. You can pay the tab."

"Sure," said Burr, unsteady.

 

 

Laurens, who perhaps should not have been driving, tried to counter effect this by doing so very slowly and carefully. Meanwhile he managed to hit every single pothole, bump, or small bit of roadkill en route. 

Burr had the first faint trembling beginnings of nausea to accompany his headache. He rolled down the window and let the warm, rain-scented breeze stream over him, mentally detailing the many reasons and varieties of hatred he felt for Laurens. Finally: "Turn here. Third on the right."

Laurens pulled to the side and let the car idle.

Uncoordinated Burr fumbled with the door handle. How embarrassing. Well, it could be worse -- far worse. It had been worse, he thought. At least he wasn't crying. 

Of course it wasn't likely that John Laurens would try to kiss him to make him feel better.

"Do you need someone to stay with you?"

Burr shook his head.

"You're not going to do something stupid, are you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," said Burr. "But. No. No plans."

"Keep to that," said Laurens. "Good night. And I'm sorry, Burr, really, but I've got to go." And he barely waited for Burr to get out of the car before he drove away.

The reason was self-evident: a figure sat on his stoop. It stood as he approached, looking small and unhappy and very, very damp. "I've been here two hours. It rained. Theo wouldn't let me inside." Bless the child. "She said you'd been -- un-talkative -- she said she thought it was me, my fault. She said ... "

"Well," said Burr, "don't expect me to let you in either."

"Burr, I took the bus here."

"How populist of you."

"They've stopped running."

"Then I guess you'll be sitting a while. Move out of the way. I have a key."

"Please," said Alex.

Burr pushed him to the side. "Go home, Alexander."

"We need to talk."

"What could you possibly have to say that I'd want to hear?" And waited, his hand on the handle.

"You're right," said Hamilton. "I wanted to tell you that you're right. I waited for you for so long and then I -- I took advantage of you, and then -- John -- that night --"

"WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT FUCKING JOHN LAURENS."

"I wanted it to be you," said Hamilton, low; his voice shook. "Aaron, I was desperate and unhappy and  _I pretended it was you_." His hands were clenched into fists; he looked desperate right now, ready to fight or scream or fly into pieces.

"Is that supposed to help?"

"Aaron --"

"Fuck you. Do you think I care if you slept with him?" Lies, lies. "What matters is that you lied to me to get what you wanted."

Alexander actually laughed out loud, hard and bitter. "Aaron Burr, you are a self-righteous -- You  _let_ me lie to you. No. You  _made_  me lie. How many times did I try to tell you about John? You shut me down and shut me down and told yourself that it didn't matter to you what I'd done because that was how you could get what you wanted. You're not stupid, Aaron. You just wanted to have your cake and eat it too, so you decided that having sex with me was more important than dealing with my past -- mistakes. But you  _didn't_ regret it, I know you didn't, not even once, not for one single minute until Laurens made you look your own choices in the face. And now you're blaming me for it. Well," and he stepped closer, "I'm blaming you right back. How does it feel?" And Hamilton put a hand flat on his chest, fingers splayed. Burr flinched. "Right there, does it hurt? Does it bother you? Tell me it doesn't bother you and we'll go upstairs and do it again. Would you like that?"

Burr swallowed, hard. "Twice. You did it twice. That isn't exactly a mistake, Alex."

"That's funny, I was thinking the same thing about you." He touched Burr's mouth and Burr stepped back.

"So," said Alex. "Do you want to try again? Maybe this time really will be a mistake. Maybe this time you'll be able to convince yourself for good that you don't want me at all, never wanted me, that you hate me --"

"I don't hate you."

"Oh, I know that. You showed up on my doorstep all those months ago, insulting me deliberately, looking at me like I was stupid, like I wouldn't understand ... So yeah, I figured you out. And I wanted you -- so I took you. But you wanted me, too ..." He shivered and wiped a hand across his face. (Was he crying? No, no, Hamilton couldn't be crying. That wasn't possible.) He said: "What I don't understand is this. Why is it so difficult for you to speak your mind? You know my opinions, I've always worn them on my sleeve. Why can't you do that? Why can't you admit what you want?"

Burr had waited through all this, patient and empty as a stone. Now the dam seemed empty. "Hamilton, are you finished?"

"I'm done. That's all. I can't think of a single thing more to say. It's amazing."

"Then I'm going to bed. It's late. I'm tired. You do what you like." He went inside and shut the door -- and he looked out again through the peephole. 

Alexander hadn't moved. 

It was too dark to see his face; he was lit from behind by the yellow light of the street lamp, and nothing showed clearly but the edges of his hair, drying now in lank points. 

How much longer would it be night? How long until dawn? How long until the bus came again?

Burr counted to a hundred and back down -- twice -- three times -- slowly -- while he watched. He tried to think rationally, clearly, carefully. 

All he could think about was how beautiful Alex was. How he looked that first night, dreamy-eyed and guilty -- when Burr first kissed him in the office -- and how it felt now to pass him, to brush shoulders, and not be acknowledged -- the pain in his chest, the feeling he was witnessing another person he loved slowly shrink away and die, from the inside out this time, the light in his eyes dimming while the body would not relent.

He thought of Laurens saying  _I love him -- and he's in love with you._ Furious and grieving, saying that Alex had cried and cried, saying  _no matter what I tried it wasn't enough._  

How close he was to making another mistake. How many chances would he get? Did he deserve any of them?

He couldn't bear this.

He opened the door. "Hamilton -- aren't you going to come in?"

 

 

They made it to the hallway.

Burr forgot to be quiet; he forgot Laurens' warning to be careful; he forgot everything but the feeling of mouth and tongue and skin on skin, how those clever hands drew him out until he cried aloud and covered over his mouth to quiet his noise. He licked the palm and the fingers curled and he bit down on them hard and the hand retreated to somewhere different, a place that made Burr arch and swear and shut his eyes and swear again in a different tone.

Afterwards they separated. 

Hamilton looked a little fierce in the half-light of the streetlamp that came in through the window. He wiped the corner of his mouth and tasted his fingers, staring at Burr. "What now?" he said.

"Come to bed with me. Come to sleep. I need sleep. You need sleep. We can't lay right here on the floor."

"Theo -- if she wakes up and finds me here --"

"She's seen us in bed before. And out of it. Come to bed, Alex." And when Hamilton didn't move, Burr kissed him on his mouth.

He tasted of salt, Burr thought, and a trace of flowers.

 

 

They did not go to sleep at once; they curled together instead. He looped his arm around the Hamilton's waist, pressed his belly against his back, breathing in deeply (oh the fine trail of hair at the nape of his neck, oh the sweet taste of skin) until the sight -- and smell -- and taste all became too much. Burr pushed his lover into the mattress with the weight of his own body and covered that argumentative mouth with his own, swallowing down the noises that Alex made, eating his voice, consuming his words.


	7. "Just stay alive -- that would be enough"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an awful lot of kissing, rugburn in unfortunate places, Hamilton gets greedy, Laurens gets drunk, and the Burrs go out for supper at a nice restaurant.
> 
> Plenty of bad words and (non-graphic) smut herein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's an AIDS reference in here, kids. it's minor but um TW for that.  
> play safe, stay safe.

Burr woke to a splitting headache, a nagging sense of guilt, and an empty bed. In came a rush of vertigo and nausea -- but now he was able to hear the sound of a shower running nearby and the adrenaline began to dissipate. Not that he should care -- not that it would _matter_ , exactly, if Hamilton wanted to leave in the morning without saying goodbye -- except -- 

He swallowed down several painkillers and lay back down, meaning to listen to the water until it turned off. Instead he  fell asleep at once.

He woke again with a jolt, unable to breathe. Someone was pinching his nostrils shut. 

He sat up, shaking off the hand and swearing vehemently in German.

"You were snoring," said Alexander's voice: and there was the rest of the man too, looking annoyingly well-rested for someone who had been very much awake and experiencing an elevated heartrate for most of the night. " _And_ you didn't respond to voice commands. I had no other choice."

"I'm not a dog to be clicker-trained." Burr yawned enormously. Alex's hair was wet and combed out. Distracting. 

Alex leered. "I love it when you open your mouth like that --"

"Jesus, Hamilton. Let a man recover his strength." He looked out the window at the bright, open sky: it was well mid-morning. "Have you seen Theo? It's late for her to be in bed."

"She already ate breakfast and practiced piano. Now she is reading."

Burr rubbed his face. "Mmm. I slept through her practice? That's ... unlikely. What book is she reading?"

" _Les Miserables_. In French."

"I prefer Dumas; Hugo tends to ramble. Was she surprised to see you?"

"Nothing surprises that child. Or else she has a remarkable poker face. Aaron?"

Burr paused in the middle of dressing.

"Thank you," said Hamilton. "Last night? Thank you."

"For making you sit out in the rain for hours?"

"For letting me be here. For loving me. For," and he took a deep breath, "for making me feel like you loved me."

Burr was having a hard time breathing. "Alex --"

"You don't have to -- to say it. I know you don't. I'm not stupid. And I'm not asking you to. I'm not expecting you to. That really would be stupid."

"It's not you."

"Of course it is."

Burr looked away from those dark, steady eyes. Alex was right -- of course he was right -- but he was wrong too. "I do care about you. You're smart, and funny, sometimes, and you're a decent person, usually. You're patient. And you're kind to Theo. And you're not boring. You're never boring. Alex, I do _care_ \-- "

"I know that. Aaron, do stop flinching at me. I wasn't trying to upset you. I just wanted you to know that I know." And Alexander rubbed his thumb over Burr's cheekbone, just beneath the eye; he kissed him, raised up a little on his toes to reach. "I just wanted to thank you," he said again, and kissed Burr some more, long and slow.

 

 

This was enough. It ought to be enough. Waking to sleep again, waking to love again -- to feign love -- it was enough. Alex slept in the dawn's early light and Burr traced letters on the long expanse of his exposed skin; he wrote apologies he wouldn't say, words that might or might not be true, things he wouldn't chance whispering into that sleeping ear. Who could tell when it was listening, or what it might hear, even if he spoke the truth? 

And when he was done  -- when words were not sufficient -- he found other ways to apologize, other ways to try and compensate for what he could not give. He learned how to bring Alex where he wanted him to be, fast or slow, and how to keep him there holding on; he learned to make that hungry, haunted look leave the dark eyes. He liked that. He found (with some surprise) that he had a talent. And oh, he did _like_ the dreaming drowsy gaze, when they were shivering together, both shaken and damp with sweat. The world narrowed to details for him -- softness and bone and salt and sweat; he seemed to wake up. And it seemed that Alex left consciousness completely, falling apart into a haze of contentment, where Burr could not follow him. 

He was jealous and scornful and resigned.

He thought of his wife; he thought of how different a man was from a woman, how different all people are from each other, the differences between woman and woman as vast or vaster as those between woman and man. Salt and softness and bone. Burr traced a long line with his tongue, testing  those differences. He bit down hard on a rounded corner of exposed hip, hard enough to leave a mark, and Alex cried out, all his straightforward desire and honesty right there in his voice-- 

  

Meanwhile the sun came up and the world still spun, habitually askew on its axis. 

"Do you like him?" Burr asked his daughter one night. They were cleaning supper dishes together, looking out the window at Hamilton, who was wandering about in the yard, inspecting grass and dirt for god knew what.

"I told you that before. Yes. You know that." She handed him another plate. "Do you like him?"

"I do," he admitted. "He has strange opinions about books, he has no real sense of humor and subtlety ... but he beats me in chess as often as I beat him. Though you wouldn't think it to look at him, would you? He's so ..." And he gestured emphatically; water droplets flew.

"He is, very much," she said. "But he likes you. He can't be so very terrible."

"Terrible taste, maybe," said Burr. 

 

Meanwhile, Laurens barely spoke to Hamilton and said nothing at all to Burr. This was not precisely a hardship -- although Burr had (almost) come to appreciate the lanky, moody Laurens, all raw heart and no patience; he was like a less calculating, not to say less intelligent, version of Hamilton himself. 

Laurens never said anything to Alex (as far as Burr knew) about their reinstated relationship; he certainly never brought it up to Burr, no matter how often they stood in awkward silence for the duration of an elevator ride.

If Alexander didn't talk about it, if it didn't seem to worry him, why should Burr be thinking about it -- running it over and over in his mind like rolling a pebble between his fingers?

Because a quiet Hamilton was a bothered Hamilton, that was why. Because there were those two nights, tucked away like a secret. Because Alex was divorced and he wouldn't explain why. Because Burr, no matter how often he tried, could not stop wanting to know.  _Cui bono?_ he thought. He could not follow the thread to its conclusion, every direction led to a knot and a tangle and he found nothing at all, except -- except -- he wanted to know.

 

Burr wanted to know.

He stopped what he was doing in surprise at the realization and Alex made a noise of protest and arched up again and Burr resumed, angry  now at himself and Alex both; he felt those fingers gripping his skin, nails scratching and biting down into him like a row of teeth, like  his teeth were scraping and biting down, although Burr had the control here, there was only so much Alex could do in retaliation, Burr's forearm was far less sensitive than -- 

And now Alex was pulling him up for a kiss.

In the momentary quiet it was easy to clearly hear the ring of a text message. Alexander's phone, of course; Burr kept all noises and notifications off. ( _"You_ don't have to coordinate schedules with your ex-wife," Hamilton had said, annoyed, but Burr thought Alex enjoyed it; it made him feel important, wanted. And Burr did not. What a useless emotion guilt was.)

Burr rolled on his back and rolled his eyes and moaned very quietly, because Hamilton was calling back whomever sent him the text -- and now he could hear Theo downstairs, practicing her piano etude. Speak of guilt.

Hamilton came back over, tossed his phone on the bed, and bent over to pick up clothes.

"This really is an interruption, then."

"What?"

"I said: what is it? Are you leaving?"

"Philip. Or not, actually. His mother. She's in trouble." He glanced up, under his hair. "It doesn't matter. I have to get him."

"It's two days early."

"Burr, he's my son."

"... yes, Alex. I know that."  _Burr?_ , he thought. "I wasn't complaining. Come here and let me kiss you before you go. Will you be back tonight?"

"Yes," said Alexander. He stood carefully, patiently still while Burr rose up from the bed to kiss him goodbye.

 

And so Burr didn't want to do much of anything, anymore. _Coitus interruptus_ made him grouchy. Alex leaving made him grouchy. Being grouchy made him grouchy. He kicked at the bedclothes, dragging them to the foot in a mess, and made himself sit up, thinking that while he was irritable he might as well clean the damn place -- 

And lo, there was a dark-brown leather book on the floor.

Alexander's. Or Theo's.

He picked it up, splaying the leaves, thinking if it were his daughter's handwriting, he would just open the door and call her up, he wouldn't read a single _word_ \-- but the pages were filled densely in a tight, cramped hand, smeared slightly as if the author had dragged his hand across before the ink was quite dry.

Theo was wrote with her right hand. And Alex -- his Alex -- his beautiful tempestuous _frustrating_ Alex -- used his left hand for everything.

Burr sat down hard on the floor.

The last page was only half-filled. It began  _John said,_ and Burr shut the book. 

A minute later he opened it back up.

_John said Burr cares only for himself; J is become disingenuous, rather out of character I feel as Aaron told me himself --_

He slammed closed the book again and shut his eyes and counted to a hundred, arguing silently both sides; then he locked the door and sat against it and started to read from the beginning.

  

He went to sleep alone that night. Alex hadn't returned or sent word -- Burr turned on the volume to his phone and even checked it now and then, to make sure.

 

When he opened his eyes it was mid-day and sunny and warm, although the night was stormy, cold and thick with a strange drizzing rain. 

Now grass was all around him; he sat comfortably on a blanket, and his wife rested her dark head on his shoulder. He didn't move at all.

They were on the crest of a hill. Below them spread out a lake, man-made but still restful to look at for all that. Burr recognized it; he'd taken Theo here the weekend before to feed ducks and eat greasy truck food and walk around in the sunlight, away from her books and papers and piano. _A well-balanced diet of activities,_ she'd called it. He thought he could pick out her form even now, there among the children playing at the water's edge. 

He wondered if she were having the same dream of ducks and ponds and sunlight.

Slowly, carefully, Burr raised his arm and put it around Theodosia's shoulders; he brought her in closer against him. She shifted away a second and he thought -- but no, she only freed her own arm, she wrapped it around his waist, and sighed. 

He was so damned lucky, he thought. Because he could feel the heat of his wife's skin through her clothes; he could touch her -- within limits -- and even smell her, that fine delicate scent of soap and clean hair and the indefinable marker of her own self. He could speak to her, though she could not (or would not?) speak with him. 

And  her breath was steady and peaceful as if she were alive. 

"She looks like you, more and more," said Burr. "Sometimes that's even a comfort. She  talks like you, too."

They watched as Theo tried to bribe the waterfowl with feed. 

"And she talks like herself."

If he were imagining this, wouldn't Theodosia speak -- and laugh -- and love him, touch him, as she had done, as she wouldn't ever do again? If he were imaging this -- 

No. She was real. She was _here_. He didn't know where _here_  was but he knew they were together. That was enough; it would be enough. 

God how he missed her. 

He said: "When you died, I thought I would never accept it. I thought I'd never be happy again." (The taste of her skin in the morning. Her conversation. Her laughter. Her unadulterated delight when she trounced him at chess. Arguing over books. Oh, Theodosia.) "But it isn't like that, is it? I haven't accepted you gone, _I cannot accept it,_  and I can still -- like this. Here at the pond. Theo and I were here last week. This was a good day, T."

She moved away a bit to show him her smile.

"Or Alex," he said: and the smile died. 

"I wish you could know him, really know him. Oh Theodosia, I would love to hear you argue with him! He would work himself up into a lather, he always does, and you would win, of course you would win, he has no self-control and you are so -- and it would make me -- it would make me happy."

She sighed and nestled down on the blanket. She rested her head in his lap and he ran his hands over her hair, brushing the loose strands back from her face. 

"I wish we could all be together, all of us, like this. Just together, having a good day. I don't need to be happy," he told her, honestly. "I just need good days." 

And she laughed at him, noiselessly; she reached back for his hand and he gave it to her and she tucked it around her body.

"Alex needs to be happy," said Burr. "He deserves happiness. Maybe I don't."

She brought the palm of his hand up to her mouth and kissed it, lingering.

"Maybe," he said to her. "Maybe. I need to think it over."

 

He was good at thinking. Sometimes he did nothing but think -- nothing but wait. But he wanted to do this right; he wanted to be careful. He didn't want to cause more hurt than could be healed.

But the possibility was too big to see all at once. Their lives were too entangled, now; so Burr tried to introduce it in sections, in moments, rather than all at once.

Alex came home, looking worn out, not wanting to talk; he brought Philip over to sleep the night ("That's fine," said Burr, aggrieved) and crawled in to bed himself, shutting his eyes, falling asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

And Burr -- he waited and he thought. When Alex pressed against his body, he thought about it. When he showered afterwards, washing carefully the areas Alex loved best, letting the hot water rinse off sweat and worse -- and when they ate breakfast together (Burr had coffee and a piece of toast; Alex had a bagel with cream cheese and onions and lox and _two_ kinds of ground pepper, and it was impossible that anyone could taste food so early in the morning much less appreciate it, but Alexander tucked it away and looked for more) -- when Theo and Philip made them listen to their practiced duets -- then, Burr thought about it.  He tried to imagine things differently.  He tried to count the good days.  He tried to make a choice.

 

Laurens and Burr had not so much as acknowledged each other at all in several weeks, and when Burr dumped his bag on Laurens' desk it was no different; the other man didn't even bother to look up. In its own way, that was as good as a greeting. 

But Burr was impatient. "John Laurens, I want you to go out with me tonight."

Laurens glanced at the open door. "You have a peculiar way of asking people on dates, Burr."

"Don't be a fucking ass. You know I'm not asking you out. We need to talk and I need to be drunk for it."

"Am I also going to need to be drunk for this conversation?"

"Probably."

"Excellent. Sounds like a lot of fun."

"Is that a yes?"

Laurens stared down at his paper; he tapped his pen against the page. He still hadn't looked Burr in the face.

"I'll pay," said Burr.

"You know the magic words to get me right up in the saddle," said Laurens. "Well, I suppose that I am ready to enjoy myself. Is it still pissing down rain? I'll get my umbrella."

Burr waited in the hallway.

Laurens emerged. "Let's go."

Burr swore at him. "You bastard, that's my umbrella."

"Sure is," said Laurens. "It's a good one, too. Sturdy. Nice handle. Are we going to that same dive? Excellent, really excellent, best sour in town. Lead the way."

 

It was strange, it was passing strange, but sitting in silence and getting drunk with Laurens was far easier than even holding a conversation with Alexander. He was a good drinking companion -- acerbic and self-deprecating and, most of all, he knew how to be quiet when the other person didn't want to talk. Hamilton would never master that, thought Burr.  He finished his second drink and watched as Laurens nursed his own.

"Are you ready?"

"If you're asking if I am ready to consider some indecent proposal, Burr, the answer is no. There isn't enough alcohol in this entire bar. In the state. The world."

"Good. You're ready. So. I'm going to talk for a while and I do not want you to interrupt me. Okay?" Nothing. "Laurens, that needs an answer."

Laurens laughed out loud. "Burr, you damned idiot. You think you're being clear. You're not being clear. Yes, I'll be quiet."

"It's about Hamilton."

"That much is obvious."

"You're not supposed to be talking."

Laurens took another drink, silently rolling his eyes.

"I read his journals."

"You are one fucked-up --"

"If you talk right now I will tell the _entire bar_ that drinks are on you tonight."

So Laurens pressed his lips together firmly and simply glared instead. He could express a surprising lot of nuance with his eyebrows.

Burr said: "I read his journals. He was out." This was harder to say than he'd expected, harder than when he'd practiced. He scrubbed sweaty palms against his trousers. "You're right. He's in love with me. He thinks you're marvelous beyond _words_ , apparently, although he certainly used enough of them to try and describe your amazing, astonishing ways -- but he is in love with me."

John Laurens made a muffled sound through his teeth that sounded very much like "Fuck you, Aaron Burr."

"He shouldn't be in love with me," said Burr. "I'm terrible for him. I don't make him happy." He swallowed. "He doesn't make me happy. He just makes me -- aggravated. Frustrated. Every day I want to shoot him in the mouth just to shut him up. He is --"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you should be with him."

_"He doesn't fucking well want me, Burr."_

"Except that he does. He's slept with you --"

"When he was miserable over _you_ \--"

"Twice, so far," said Burr. He added evenly: "Twice that he told me about." 

And John Laurens flinched.

"Laurens, he needs you. He wants to be loved openly; he wants to be needed, violently, desperately needed. And you give him that. I don't." There was more to say -- there was so much more -- but something rose in his throat and choked him. When he had cleared it away Laurens was staring at him. 

And "Shit," said Laurens, feelingly. He  finished his drink in one swallow.

They sat in silence then, the cold center eye of a storm, while the noise of the evening swelled and eddied around them.

At last: "What now?"

"Now I tell Alexander."

  

They left the building together, holding on to each other's arm, unsteady with emotion and drink. "Here -- I'm getting the bus. Does it go to your place?"

"No. But it doesn't matter. I'll get a cab."

"You can stay with me, if you'd rather," said Burr. "There's space."

Laurens shook his head. "That's a bad idea. I'll just -- I'll walk. It's not too far."

"Be careful. Remember, green means go for the cars, not for you."

Laurens nodded and started away and turned back and, most unexpectedly, put his arms around Burr's neck. He smelled of cologne and whiskey. "Thank you, Burr. You're going to hurt him terribly, you know, and after you're done I'm going to be too far angry with you to remember how I feel right now. You're a wretched disaster of a human being --" and he kissed Burr on the cheek -- "but thank you for being kind to my Alex. In your own fucked up way."

"Go home," said Burr, amused; he pushed the other man gently between the shoulder blades and watched as Laurens disappeared into the crowds of people milling about. 

And then he leant against the bus sign and reflected on the fact that he very well might cry.

 

 

Two days later:

"Theo." He knelt in front of where she was reading in an armchair, upside-down. "I'm having Mr Hamilton over for a while."

She lowered the book to her lap and blinked at him; she flipped herself over to sit upright. "You want me to leave again."

"Yes."

"This is intensely annoying. AND rude."

"Yes."

She made a face at him. "How long?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry. Will you please go outside and stay until I come and fetch you?" She set her jaw at him, looking mutinous. "Promise," said Burr. "I need to know you'll do this for me."

She picked up the book and ran her thumbnail over the pages, still glaring at him.

"Theodosia, _please_. It's the last time I'll ask."

"What, are you going to rent out a hotel room in future? Send me to boarding school?"

"No. Nothing like that. I just need to talk to Alexander one last time."

She kept frowning -- and then she sat upright, wearing a different expression on her face: "Wait. Once more? That's it? Are you sure this is what you want? This is now? Right now? Very now?"

"Yes."

"You're positive."

"Yes."

She dropped the book on the floor and put her arms around him, pressing herself along his body. He held her head to his chest, holding carefully the delicate shape of her skull. Then she pulled away. "Be careful," she said.

"I will."

 

 

"Alexander," he'd tried, mentally, and "Alex," and also "Hamilton." None of them felt right. So at last he just sat down and said nothing.

Alex was half-clothed, sitting in Burr's chair; his hair was loose around his face, and a book -- his journal -- was in his lap, scrounged from beneath the bedframe where it must have  _somehow_  fallen. 

He hadn't asked Burr about it.

So Burr waited. Eventually even Hamilton would stop writing.

He did. He looked up. "What are you doing?" Curiosity, surprise, no anger.

"We need to talk," said Burr.

"Right now?"

"Now."

He could see the exact moment when Alexander understood; he watched that open form shut up like a telescope, even as his eyes widened, even as he swallowed, even as he dropped his head to hide the realization and shut the covers of the book over his pen and stood and turned around and dropped the journal on the chair. 

Burr waited. 

Unbelievably, Hamilton laughed. "We don't need to talk just yet."

"Alex --"

"I'm hungry."

"You don't need to eat right this --"

"Not that sort of hungry. Kiss me."

"No! Dammit, Alex, will you just let me talk -- "

Hamilton was never one to wait for the mountain to come to Mahomet. He leaned forward and kissed Burr on the mouth. 

They separated slowly. Alexander was gripping Burr by the arms, hard, holding him in place. 

"You don't want to do this," said Burr. He felt rather lightheaded.

"Oh yes, Aaron Burr. I very much do want this."

"I don't want to _let_ you."

"Yes, you do. Shut up." And Hamilton kissed him again; he licked the corner of Burr's mouth. 

Burr shut his eyes. 

" _God,"_ said Alex, "I love that look on your face -- Aaron, let me -- _let me --_ I want to --"

And so Burr let him ( _damn_ Hamilton, anyway) and so now they were on the floor again, developing rugburn in unfortunate places, and just like he'd always done he let Alexander do what he wanted to do and let himself go blank, go into deep focus, anything to stop thinking for a moment, to stop making decisions, to stop waiting and take and take and take and take and be taken. 

Alex shivered in his arms, dropping kisses on his peaks and valleys, still mumbling something Burr hadn't bothered to pay attention to in a long while though now he heard it: "Aaron, you _idiot_ \-- you damned fool -- let me -- I _want_ \-- if you would -- give in -- you  _never_ admit -- I'm right -- always right --"

This was laughable; this was _horrible_. "Stop talking," he told Hamilton, harshly, and felt the warm body shudder against his skin. "Why are you still  _talking_? Kiss me, Hamilton, right fucking now --"

And he did. And that was better and it was worse. Burr felt something break free -- he pressed his hand over his chest to keep his heart protected and quiet and _whole_ , safe in the cage of his own bones, but it had escaped, he could not find it, it went out and out and out and he could not see it to bring it back. He was crying too hard. But he wept silently. He prayed Alex would not notice. Where was the peace -- that elusive tenuous tendril -- where was the quietness? Gone now. Gone forever.

Alex was crying openly now, trembling all over with a desperate grief. He took Burr's face in both his hands and kissed him again and again on the eyes and mouth and forehead, licking at Burr's tears with a quick hot pass of his tongue, and -- it was a miracle -- he didn't say anything at all.

 

Eventually they lay quiet. Eventually: "I don't love you," said Burr.

Hamilton was staring at the ceiling. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You need to know."

"I already do."

"Laurens loves you."

"For the seventy-fifth time: Burr, if I wanted to be with Laurens right now I would be with Laurens. I promise you. He's a sure thing."

"He wants to make you happy."

"Yeah, well, I don't care what Laurens wants. I want you."

"You're not happy with me."

"So? Isn't that my decision to make? Don't I get the right to choose?"

"You're not even really arguing with me," said Burr, amazed and astonished. "I thought you'd be arguing."

"You haven't tried to dump me yet," said Alexander. He sat up, flushed and angry.

"I'm doing it right now, you beautiful pain in the ass, you just aren't listening. You deserve better than me. You deserve to be happy. And that's not me."

"I take back every single nice thing I've ever said about your eloquence. These are the worst closing arguments I've ever heard."

"Alex, you need more than I can give you. So much more. You need to be openly adored. By everyone. Constantly." He tried to smile. "That's how you are. It's sort of -- charming, really. But I can't give you that. I can't express myself that way. I don't have it in me."

He waited for Hamilton to make the obvious pun but the other man only said: "You can do it. I've seen you do it. You adore your daughter, Burr. Constantly and openly."

"Yes." And her mother. "And if something happened to her -- if she died -- it would destroy me. I can't risk that with you, too. I will not love someone and risk putting my heart in the ground with them."

"She's only ten years old, you ridiculous paranoid lump of shit, she's not going to die -- I'm not even _forty_  --"

"Theodosia was young when she got sick. We're guaranteed nothing."

"Yes," said Alexander; he was crying again now. "Aaron, I've lost people too -- god, I lived through the '90s, I lived through that fucking plague, do you know how many friends I've buried -- lovers -- but isn't that more reason to be here now? Love me. Stay with me. Let me love you.You love her, you _can_ love me, you're capable of that, don't lie, don't fucking _lie_ to me again ..."

"I don't want to," said Burr.

"Please," said Hamilton, shaking.

Burr kissed that open, trembling mouth. "Oh my darling, beautiful boy. Go home."

 

Two months later, on a particular Sunday in October, the Burrs went to dinner at a nice restaurant -- with tablecloths and a _prix fixe_ and a menu in French, although the waiters spoke only English and were not amused by Theo's attempts to _parlez_. 

Burr scolded his daughter for social rudeness and agreed (in German) that it was very funny.

"Hypocrisy," said Theo, full of scorn and sugar.

"They probably just need a job," said Burr. "Don't expect so much of the world, Theo. Your own self is the only thing in life you can control. If that."

When their drinks came, he took her soda and gave her his wine instead. "You'd like it."

"Don't you?"

"No -- yes. Not tonight."

She tasted it and made a face. "I thought they said it was a sweet wine?"

"Misnomer. Or rather, it is, but only as compared to ..." He trailed off. She was holding it up to the candle on the table, watching the light flicker through the glass. "Theodosia, you know I love you."

"Yes," she said, concentrating.

"You know I loved your mother." Loved, he thought: I do love. _Amo te, amavi te, te semper amabo._ I do, I have, I shall. 

"Yes." She put down the glass and looked at him instead, as focused on him as she'd been looking through the wine, with that same directness of gaze -- the way he felt towards her -- a beam of light, an arrow, a window opening unto the sea.

A server brought their food. "Special occasion?" she said, smiling, looking from one to the other.

Burr didn't answer.

"Yes," said Theo in her I-am-being-polite voice, looking directly at her father.

"Congratulations," said the server, and left.

"Congratulations," said Burr to his daughter. "Well."

"She was trying."

"I didn't appreciate it," he snapped, speaking French.  _Je ne l'apprécie pas!_

Theo ate silently. Burr pushed at his food.

Desert came. Two forks. 

Theo had finished her wine. She grinned at him. "Chocolate might improve your temper."

"My temper is perfectly fine." He tried some. "This is disgusting."

"It's marvelous. You have no sense."

"And you have a very inexperienced palate. You like carryout pizza, Theo." But he was laughing now, trying another bite, making a face at her to make her laugh too.

A pair of men were seated nearby, talking low and confidential; the Burrs watched them rise from the table and leave together, arms linked. 

"I'm sorry about you and Mr Hamilton," said his daughter, at last. "And I'm sorry I didn't say it before. I felt strange. But I ought to have said something. Do you miss him?"

Yes.

"No," said Burr. "Theo, do you want me to remarry?"

"Why would I want that?"

"If you want a -- a new mother. Or a new father." He tried to smile. "A replacement. An upgrade."

"I can barely handle you."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Do you want to marry? Are you thinking of anyone?"

"No."

"Were you thinking of it?"

"No."

"Then why do you ask?"

"I want you to be happy," he said. "I love you."

"You make me happy," she said. "We are so lucky to be alive right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- in real historical life, poor Burr never found his umbrella (but he also lost his gloves and someone returned them and he was all THERE IS KINDNESS IN THE WORLD, oh Burr I love you forever)  
> \- historical liberties: Burr called his daughter "T," not his wife  
> \- apparently I cannot stop referencing Othello  
> \- there's a Nields reference too. "We sat around the table and we drank a bottle of wine, and it poured around us like a moat so no one could get us, and I was fine, and I said _Haven't I paid my dues by now?_  
>  \- also an AIDS reference because (like Alex) I was a young queer in the 90's.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a brief re-cap of events that happened after the ending.  
> written to make pensiveVisionary happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written somewhere around Feb. 2017.

Burr and Laurens have a long and strange on-again-off-again relationship; it never quite gets off the ground and neither one of them particularly  _hurts_ the other, so much as they gradually don't need each other anymore, and gradually break up.

All things considered, it's quite healthy.

 

Meanwhile, time passes. Years pass. Alex has moved out of the law offices and into local government. Burr follows his career.

(Theo: "Are you reading another article about Mr Hamilton?"

Burr: "..."

Theo: "Are you going to vote for him?"

Burr: "Ballots are secret, Theo."

Theo: "Uh-huh. Sure.")

 

Burr just happens to chaperone her class on a field trip to Meet Your Officials, and _who_ does he find but Mr Hamilton!?

Theo is a young teenager now and is ENTIRELY HUMILIATED FOREVER by her dad meeting his old boyfriend in public like this; she refuses to acknowledge Alex.

Burr is ALSO embarrassed but for somewhat different reasons. He notices that Alex is 1) still hella cute, and 2) still not wearing a wedding band, and 3) also flustered.

Burr dithers over this for a few days, pretending he doesn't care. (He cares.)

Finally he decides -- to hell with this, he'll just call him, okay? HE IS AN ADULT THEY CAN HAVE A CONVERSATION. He finds Philip in the student directory and ends up talking to Eliza, of all people. Awkward Conversation Ensues! Eliza is mixed amused and wary, but she does end up re-directing him to Alex (with a warning that all this had better not fuck with Phil).

Burr: "I have a kid, too. Fucking up her life is the last thing I want."

Eliza: "WAIT. You're _Theo's_ father?! Oh, thank goodness -- I thought you were some random ... nevermind, nevermind, sorry. But you're so -- competent. Why are _you_ interested in _Alex?_ "

(Burr is starting to like Eliza.)

 

He dithers substantially again -- during which time an impatient Eliza spills the beans, and an impatient Alex calls up his old boyfriend.

They agree to get coffee and have a meet up at the local walking garden. It's _not_ a date. _Definitely_ not a date (Burr tells Alex) but he dresses carefully and he feels sort of tremble-y about the whole thing.

 

Their conversation is quite quite awkward, with none of the heat either one expected. They talk about kids, about work, there's a mix-up about Burr's wedding ring (which he's taken to wearing again out of sentimentality and a last-ditch attempt to keep people from hitting on him) -- Alex asks if he is still a widower and has not yet "found anyone good enough for the great and mysterious Aaron Burr."

It's a petty thing to say, and Burr is incredibly hurt. He points out that Alex asked HIM out.

Alex snips that Burr made the first move but was too chickenshit to do anything more, and wasn't that typical?!

This arguing is incredibly frustrating in more ways than one -- they are both caught between wanting to throw down and wanting to strip down -- so they storm off.

 

Burr writes fifteen letters, ripping up each one and trying again -- the last version says something like "I'm a shit, and I'm sorry, and I'm sorry that you're a shit too because mostly I like you."

Finally he ends up at Alex's door.

Alex answers.

Burr grabs him and kisses him and before Alex can say anything but a muffled squeak!, he says this long rambling monologue about apologies and admitting when you're wrong and how complicated it is to even KNOW if you're wrong or not because life is queer and uncertain and that uncertainty is why forgiveness is so important, and Alex's habit of making everything HUGE and ETERNAL is incredibly tiresome, and even when he's right, Burr can't deal with that INTENSITY all the time, you know? ... But he kind of wants to try. He's tried his own way, he's tried low-key, and it didn't work. Part of that, (he says), was that it was with Laurens; there's a basic incompatibility there. But part was that maybe Burr needs to be pushed out of his comfort zone? Maybe he NEEDS big words about Love and Forever and those uncomfortable feelings. Maybe, he says, YOU need to learn to quiet down, and I need to learn to speak up, and ... and maybe we can teach each other.

Alex blinks at him. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Good lord no," Burr says. "I'm asking you on a date."

From the room beyond, an unseen member of Alex's extended family says "Your proposal is going to be one for the record books."

 

Follow bickering about when it's right to interrupt someone and when it's not -- "like maybe TELL me when you're having a party? Jesus, Alex! THEO knows this stuff!" etc.

 

A few nights later they meet again. They share a bottle of wine and a careful talk about expectations and realistic relationships (especially when kids are involved).

 

They kiss.

Burr wants to go to bed.

Alex refuses.

Burr confesses that he's missed Alex for ages -- "it's not just about the sex, for me."

Alex, wicked: "So you did like that part?"

Burr confesses that Alex makes him laugh.

Alex confesses that making Burr laugh is one of his favorite things to do.

Burr says he doesn't ever really laugh around anyone else.

Alex: "I don't know if that's a compliment."

Burr: "I don't know, either. But Alex? I don't want you to stop trying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was its own fic before. that was thoughtless. i move it.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr, where I rant and rave and unravel: [littledeconstruction](http://littledeconstruction.tumblr.com/).


End file.
